Merry Christmas, Mum.

This is our first Christmas without you. Christmas was always so special to you. By the time I was about 13, I had stopped wishing to get up at the crack of dawn and open presents, but you had not. Instead, you would have woken the whole house up running around excitedly at about 6.30 in the morning declaring that it was Christmas as though we had forgotten and if you just told us often enough, Dad and I would stop glaring at you blearily and get into the spirit of things.

 You would have put on your hair and your face and got dressed up, wrapping tinsel around your head and using baubles as earrings. Ferdie, the teddy bear ,would have his Christmas hat on and you'd have bought truly horrendous Christmas hats for everyone but, in the last twenty years, especially for your long-suffering son-in-law.. Each year, you tried to exceed the previous year's effort for ridiculousness of hat in the hope of eliciting some protest. He was equally stubborn in never complaining. At some point, we would have put reindeer antlers on the dog.

 Right now, you would be making scrambled eggs with smoked salmon and Bucks Fizz. On a couple of occasions the consumption of Bucks Fizz was a little excessive and the making of Christmas dinner became a bit chaotic. Nevertheless, it would always be perfect although you would criticise it and say that the meat was too dry or the potatoes not crispy enough and we would all have to reassure you that it was delicious. Then, there would be Christmas pud and minced pies and you would virtuously have low fat creme fraiche instead of cream to "watch your diet" despite having already consumed about 8000 calories. Then there would be card games which you would always lose and Dad would always win and your affectionate swearing at him would become more inventive and creative as more wine was consumed.

At some point, you might well dance and continue your effort to teach me to do so before, yet again, accepting that a sense of rhythm was not something I would ever acquire. Then the women of the family would flop on the sofa, realise we had forgotten to listen to the Queen's Speech, halfheartedly try to find it, give up and watch some rubbish instead while demanding the men keep up a constant supply of tea as they cleared up before going for brandy and a cigar. Then you would suddenly fall asleep and Dad would steer you to bed and we would go home. 

We have had our scrambled eggs and smoked salmon but I know you would tut at the consistency of it and wonder how you ever produced a daughter who could not even scramble an egg. Later we will toast you with dinner and I will, in your honour, yet again, try and fail to dance. I will play cards with my husband and call him a 'shitty-bum-bugger-soddikins' every time he wins. In our family, this phrase means "I love you" and was invented by you. I shall dispense with this version, though, and simply say "I love you" even though you are definitely a shitty-bum-bugger-soddikins for leaving us at this time.

Anyway, I am now going  to help prepare the Christmas dinner and if I do the stuffing all wrong and make the gravy lumpy, you have only yourself to blame for not being here to order me to step away from the oven. I will probably not be naming the potatoes or giving them faces either. Miss you, you lovable fruitcake.

Your dort,

Helsie-Beelzebub (Sigh)