Christmas has been a mild one so far, only one huge row so far. We dash in and out of the bar, smoke cigarettes and gorge on chocolates in the kitchen while waiting for a shift to start, dodge young wans in gaudy jumpers, sip a drink with staff after finishing, heave ourselves into bed, re-stock, empty bins and sweep up broken glass in the morning, and do it all again by eveningtide.

The mother-in-law was disappointed that I wasn’t going to Christmas Day mass, as if she had truly forgotten that I am a non-believer. Instead, I stood outside the church doors, waiting for mass to end and to make our way en famille to the graveyard to visit the father-in-law.

After Christmas dinner, the husband and I walked around town, on quiet streets illuminated by a waxing moon, and returned to plum pudding smothered in cornflour sauce and pillows of brandy cream. Then we visited a friend; I sat on a small velvet sofa, flanked by two miniature Schnauzers, each one lifting a paw to tap me whenever I ceased rubbing their bellies.

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