No amount of joining the Christmas supermarket scrum will recreate the sight of my mam’s hands on the trolley

My partner, Charles, being of French stock, has campaigned for a swankier Sud de la France yuletide for some years. Or, to be precise, ever since he ate his first spoon of Paxo sage and onion stuffing and gasped: “Qu’est-ce que c’est?!” Truth be told, it was a tough question to answer. Flavoured gravel that reminds me of Santa bringing a Sindy caravan set? The taste of Silent Night played on a recorder?

Certainly, it was the taste of Christmas when my parents were both still alive, but since they left, I’ve felt increasingly like Miss Havisham each Christmas season. You will recall her in Great Expectations, in her tattered gown, by a dusty wedding buffet, suspended in time and waiting for a party that will never happen. That’s me, but in novelty antlers with a Terry’s Chocolate Orange, and trying to keep the dream alive. Look, I’ve bought Bailey’s and a marzipan stollen, and I’m putting a layer of swiss roll in the sherry trifle. If I go through the motions of putting rum butter in the fridge and Quality Street on the sideboard, then it’s business as usual, isn’t it?