Much better than anything you could buy in the shops. No, don't say it! They'll hate you for it. Skinflint mum. Mean, even at Christmas. Scrooge's sister. Scroogina.

Hen, with a paper hat on, had his legs over the side of the armchair and was dozing. Jess had opened a second bottle of wine and had the television on. Cardy looked as if the thought of washing up had crossed her mind and got up saying she had something to do. "I'll be back." Yes. Four hours later. Wasn't this the time when families used to listen to the Queen? Even Stelios, as a social observer, would be listening to the Queen, who might, even, this year, have some message. For the Greeks? You never knew. The Queen was...innovative. She wasn't just doing the job. Good for her.

"I thought we'd go out for a walk," I said. "There's still a bit of sun. Come on."

Jess looked questioningly at the sky. 

About twenty minutes more light, I guessed, but I didn't spell it out. We were always late for things. 

The routineness of a walk after lunch made them willing to follow. At least they could be like everyone else in that. Did I hear the word family pass Cardy's lips, sarcastically muttered? I think I did.

"Don't ooh and aah about the beauty of bare trees, Mum, it's embarrassing. We have seen birds before." I'd stored up the reprimands and now cheerfully ignored them. The cause was probably the wine. The reason? God knows. Oh, I know, routine.

The open grassy hill descended and narrowed to where a brook sometimes flowed. It was only ever a trickle of water, but enough to create a slough of mud moulded in high relief by what seemed like hundreds of pairs of boots having recently passed through it. Countless pairs of feet tried with more or less success to step round it, leaving skidmarks and occasional deep plunges into the sticky black ooze, as part of the obligatory Christmas tramp.

Heh!

Cardy, wearing fashionable polka dot wellingtons — she might not have come otherwise — complained of a substantial splash of wet earth sliding down her jeans-clad thigh.

"Makes you more sexy," said Jess, who, even as he spoke, tasted earth where premier cru Médoc had recently been and had to wipe his face.

Hen and I hardly had time to look up before the runner, in spattered white shorts and vest top, the way runners never seemed to look these days, except at school, had passed us. His long white legs were powering him up the hill we had tottered down.

"Wow!" I said.