he pandemic has obviously made 2020 an incredible ordeal, but the year has one final kick in the nethers for us, in the shape of the approaching five-day period within which lockdown rules are relaxed. I realise this had to happen, as people want to have some sort of Christmas this year, and I understand the time has to be limited, because for every day that we relax the rules, we have to increase restrictions and sacrifice a goat, or whatever. I get all that. What this has meant, though, is that we have a five-day period within which you have to cram as much family time as possible. The ticking clock of a countdown to renewed restrictions is the ultimate Asian mother guilt device. I have visions of my own saying, “Oh, so you want to go to sleep instead of spending this limited time with your family? You can sleep as much as you like when I’m dead.” All this gives your past Christmases an extra rosy glow. Last year we went to a pub for Christmas dinner with everyone. This was intended to make it easier for us all, but turned out to be a nightmare. We had to sort out a time when everyone felt comfortable eating lunch, as well as choosing a place where one of our family members hadn’t previously had a dodgy experience. This can be tricky with my mum, as she forms a negative opinion quite easily. She once asked me to complain on her behalf about an apple strudel. I asked her what was wrong with it and she gave me a detailed explanation. I then had to explain to her that it was difficult to complain to the restaurant for not guessing that when she said apple strudel, she actually meant apple crumble. All that’s forgotten now, however, as we stare down the barrel of a 24-hour-a-day, five-day Christmas marathon. Only today, we were reminiscing about how wonderful that Christmas dinner was, conveniently forgetting that one of the kids threw a potato across a packed dining space, and we then had to have a go at them for the benefits of the other diners while actually finding it fairly funny. Planning this Christmas has been a much trickier proposition. Who is going to be lumbered with hosting it, and having to deal with family members offering to help but not really meaning it, and actually being slightly resentful when you take them up on the offer? Late November usually involves tallying up the number of Christmases you’ve sorted versus everyone else, so that you have a string of legal arguments ready if anyone suggests it’s your turn. Then you have the conversation, nobody mentions it, you feel bad and offer, and then complain about being forced into it: it’s tradition. This Christmas we are all heading to my mum’s, which, to be honest, is a great option, but don’t tell anyone I said so. My mum treats Christmas dinner as if she is opening a world buffet and will cook 207 different dishes representing cuisines from every continent, and then sit down saying it was nothing. This can either be interpreted as an incredible meal, or a campaign to make others feel inadequate about their Christmas offering, depending on your point of view. My mum will then feed us as if she has a deadline to harvest our livers for paté, while simultaneously telling my brother and I that we’re putting on weight and need to be careful. She also takes requests: I’ve asked for apple strudel.