“Nothing like a nice festive sherry to fortify the taste buds,” says Auntie Jean, while quietly drinking a pre-prandial Christmas amontillado. This 11-year old, meanwhile, is helping to trim the sprouts by the sink with Dad, who mutters aside that he’ll soon be pouring himself a gin and French once the bread sauce is put to simmer. I always thought that Dad’s drink was absolute filth: half a tumbler of gin, with the remaining volume topped up with Noilly Prat. No ice. No lemon. And then he will probably sneak in a quick top-up while Mum, my brother, Auntie Jean and I are in the sitting room watching the Queen. All that having been said, our Christmas Day feast was always, but always, quite brilliant.