Christmas pudding

I find that in life, people are generally divided into two categories: those who love Christmas, and women.

Men fah la la all over the place, and talk about how lovely it is to get the family back together.  Women have to choose tree decorations for a China-produced hunk of green plastic, send Christmas cards to people they don't really like, or even know (apologies to all those who received a Christmas card from me), and choose presents for an ever-expanding list of acquaintances and their offspring.  Oh, and hold down a full-time job, and in many cases, very often do the bulk of the childcare.  Joy to the world.

Well, fair dos to Mr Nunn, who does indeed do most of the cooking, chez Nunn, but all the same, the Nunn family is firmly split down the gender divide with those who love Christmas (Mr Nunn and Master Nunn) and those who hate it (Mrs Nunn and yours truly).

Of course it's lovely to see the family again... for about twenty-five minutes, before you revert to the behaviours displayed when you were 14.  And then of course, the shops before Christmas are rammed and no-one in their right mind would go for a poddle.  And everything's shut on Christmas Day.  The weather's usually shocking and no-one can face the often mooted, and seldom carried out "going for a walk".  Before you know it, you've spent 72 hours trapped in a house with six other people, feeling a bit like Anne Frank, only with more turkey and fewer Nazis.  By the end of it, you've probably developed Stockholm Syndrome.

However, a new Nunn family tradition was started this year - one which I hope will go on indefinitely.  Someone, and I'm not saying who, brought along some rather special brownies, which made the day a lot funnier than it would otherwise have been.  You've seen nothing until you've seen your pensioner parents off their faces, giggling at the TV remote.

Of course the side effect was that time slowed down and the day seemed to last even longer than usual.  You win some, you lose some.