I’m home with my family for Christmas, and ever since I learned to drive one of my festive chores has been to go around and deliver cards and presents to local relatives and family friends around my hometown – not a particularly enjoyable prospect, as it invariably involves a long afternoon of smiling at pleasantries from aunts and uncles, and trying not to be press-ganged into coming in for drinks or foods and end up trapped there for hours.
Another reason for my dread over the past couple of years has been the prospect of delivering cards and presents to my ex-boyfriend’s house – although we get on okay it’s always awkward when we meet, and our families have remained friends which is also makes for tricky conversations in itself. Last year I managed to slip their card and present through the door with no trouble, but this year my heart sank as I rang the doorbell and, just as I was ready to deposit their goodies, I heard thudding downstairs. When the door opened, I was at least a little relieved that rather than my ex or his parents, it was his younger brother that opened the door to me.