Generally my Christmas’s have gone pretty much like this:
Run up: lament at how my folks will be hosting everyone at their place AGAIN. Mom, Dad and me wallow in the misery of this, groaning about who will sleep where, who eats what and doesn’t eat what. Inner conflict of having loads of fam over versus losing my comfy double bed is soon placated by mother’s promise of at least one Sweetie Pie.
Days before: linen washed, tree put up (“ah but Nat, you do it so WELL!”), meal planned. Inevitably, annoying family member arrives earlier than everyone else, proceeds to make it their job to question every aspect of my life. Said nosiness veiled as caring inquiry. I escape, generally to beer with Charles. Come home wrecked after day’s worth of relative-avoiding drinking binge.
Day of: All relatives arrive, gifts are exchanged. Then the eating begins. After the eating, there is napping. More eating. A little more. Cups of tea. Reheated yummy potatoes. Constant failed attempts to sms friends. Maybe some more lamb. More lamb. Start to get meat headache. Nap.
Day after: Massive clean-up operation. The dregs of an enormous meal are converted into hundreds and hundreds of tiny little Tupperware tubs in the fridge. When said fridge is opened, at least 3 2L Cokes will fall out, all half full and serving no purpose other than costing space. Eating is encouraged, if only to create fridge space. I polish off the asparagus and the onion-free potato salad.
I imagine Christmas here will be somewhat similar. Colder, with more cups of tea.
Fewer gifts.
More Jenga.
This is a 
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