'I could go a sherry, Dad. But no, thanks,' I say. My father is silent. What I have told him must surely be news, but he is too old a bird to evince any great interest in what we will pretend is my very own business.

'There'll be no need,' says my mother. 'Ann and I would like something to eat, Alan. There's ham, pet, or mutton if you'd rather.'

Remembering past Christmases I have looked forward to something hot. Before the deaths of grandparents and the polite defections of my married siblings, Christmas and New Year were more colourful events, of sixpences and burning brandy. I take consolation in the fact that my father hates anything cold. I assemble some ham and circles of boiled egg on a piece of the Spode about which the family joke. What I need is a drink. With pity and amusement Ann joins me at the kitchen table.

*