The Christmas season is definitely upon us. 

I know this because my child is frantically 'dusting for Jesus' and I got to beat her with the big twigs kindly left by the Pan European Child Whipper on Tuesday morning (here). I am also attending more corporate events than you can shake a lukewarm canape at, whilst wading through stupid volumes of work that are being rudely dumped at my door as other people clear their inboxes.

It's difficult to muster up the energy for Christmas, which is very unlike me. Today I took a day off from work and my corporate rigor mortis smile, to spend the day giving good Christmas to my daughter.

Today's highlights:

1. Feeding the hens spaghetti. This may be the funniest thing I have seen all year.
2. Embarrassing my 7 year old by singing Joy to the World on the streets of Manchester, whilst wearing a 'way weird' bobble hat. A parenting triumph.
3. Going to Forsyth's (a Manchester institution: here) to buy more piano music and listening to my daughter play her recent exam piece on a grand piano.
4. Gluhwein, lebkuchen, bratwurst and schnitzel. With the German Markets in town, Manchester smells deliciously like my childhood. 
5. Feet up, thick socks, fire.

It's that time of year again, when four generations of the family's females gather around a 90 year old mixing bowl, to make our Christmas cakes and puddings.

Four faces, the same but for the depth of laughing lines, simultaneously frown in concentration and light up in loving laughter. Fingers that steal glace cherries are playfully slapped, and sherry sneakily shared.

We stir east to west in age order, to seal in our Christmas wishes. As always, I hope that this four will never change. That we'll never grow older. Knowing - as I peer across the age old bowl at the female faces I know like my own - that yet another year has disappeared. 

It doesn't matter though. For, when I catch a glimpse of my daughter stool-highered and leaning into the mix, I see myself years past gazing up at faces long gone. The official family start to Christmas will never end; faces will fade and new eager hands will be added to the continuous depth of my great-grandmother's mixing bowl. 

It's special. It's family. It's Christmas.

Protect it by wrapping securely in brown paper and serve with lashings of sherry. Just don't forget to enjoy it. Ever. 

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It's been a truly wonderful Christmas, with all the vital ingredients: child manically bouncing with excitement, bestfriends and family, good food, too much sherry and lots and lots of sparkles.

As most of you know we also had a surprise gift on Christmas Eve Eve.  Yes, this year we got Christmas Nits.  NITS. Santa came a little early and obviously decided to give us a Pan European Child Whipper type warning.  We eliminated the nits and I stopped referring to Nigella as the Twatful Witch That Stole My Soul & Christmas. The change to Nigellawitch removes the ungodly undertones, but still allows me to spit on the floor at every mention.  Warning successfully heeded, the gifts exponentianally improved on Christmas morning.  And oh my they were remarkably good: piles of Ephron, V&A Pattern book, mustard patent go-go boots, jelly moulds, Festival of Britain cushion, 6 year old sewn bookmarks and handmade biscuits in a glorious vintage tin.

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I love Christmas.  Love it.  But this year it all feels a bit flat, I haven't yet managed to muster enthusiasm for the events leading up to Christmas or even the day itself.  This is not like me.  I'm blaming silly deadlines, too much work-related social whirling, a stinking man-flu cold and not being brownie-guide ready.  The latter is troubling me most, I'm usually very, very ready.  I like nothing better than the planning and associated list making: searching for a present that is just-so for a loved one; glittering my house with glorious abandon; caroling at any church where I don't get struck with a thunderbolt on entry; and, working my daughter into a frenzy of santa-mania.  This year it's all been too last minute, too rushed, too manic.  Lack of readiness has not only robbed all the Christmas joy, it has also meant that I have spent a week throwing money around Manchester like Victoria Beckham on speed.  Depressingly this money has been spent on a mountain of pink plastic shit and costly gifts to make up for the lack of imagination.

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This post is part of Mocha Beanie Mummy's Silent Sunday.  Go here for more...

Read previous post: Just call me Bertha...

I grew up Abroad: Iran, Northern Ireland and Germany.  Mainly Germany, in the same picturesque Westphalian town (Detmold) for nearly ten years.  Consequently our family habits are a bastardisation of many other countries' traditions.  We solve stomach upsets with stewed apples and starchy rice, eat pokes and gravy rings, and include the continental celebration of St Nicholas Day in our run up to Christmas.

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Today has been a day of family tradition.  Four generations of the family's females have stood side by side with their industrious hands stirring, whisking and grating over a bowl that used to belong to my great-grandmother. 

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