once I’m up there that I can’t stand straight or I’ll bonk my bonce on the beams, and do a crab-like shuffle until I am perfectly positioned next to the enormo-tree.
I ceremoniously place the hideous me-fairy on the very top spikey bit, and manage to get down again without killing myself. This earns me a round of applause, and, joy of joys, a couple more party poppers get sprayed into my hair.
‘Now, we can’t wait to show you the rest of the cottage!’ says Lizzie, enthusiastically. ‘Everywhere is decorated – especially your room! That’s the best of all!’
‘Oh goody,’ I respond, not even attempting to sound genuine now. The swines are doing this on purpose. ‘I can barely wait.’
‘Actually,’ adds Laura, absently reaching out and picking random stuff out of my hair in a borderline invasive way that reminds me one hundred per cent of my own mother, ‘we have a bit of a surprise for you on that front. Call it an early Christmas present, if you like.’
‘Okay,’ I reply, moving back a few steps to stop her fiddling. She immediately realises what she was doing and grins in apology. ‘Hit me with it. Inflatable Santa in the bed? Live donkey by my manger? ‘Now That’s What I Call Christmas’ 108 piped direct into my room through invisible speakers?’
‘None of that,’ says Laura, ‘though they are all excellent suggestions, and I’ll tuck them away for future use. No, the early Christmas present is a bit simpler than that – it’s a place of your own to stay while you’re in Dorset.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, frowning in confusion. The plan was always that I would stay in Nate’s room and he would bunk in with Lizzie on a camp bed, sofa-surfing if she tried to kill him in his sleep.
‘I mean your own flat. Des res, great location, magnificent sea views, and best of all, a totally Christmas-free zone…’
‘Cherie’s apartment!’ trills Lizzie, bopping up and down in anticipation.
I give her a sideways glance, wondering what’s so exciting about Cherie’s apartment. Possibly, I think, given Cherie’s colourful past, it comes complete with a life-size stone circle and a set of bongs carved from parsnips.
‘It’s the best place in the world and you’re going to love it,’ Lizzie says. I’m not sure if I should be upset that she’s so keen to get rid of me, but understand a little better when she adds: ‘And, you know, I’ll be able to stay with you sometimes. Away from irritating brothers and mums who try and make me eat broccoli. And…well, it’s right by Josh’s house, and…’
‘She gets the picture,’ interrupts Laura, giving Lizzie a shut-your-trap-little-miss look. It works, and Lizzie is immediately silent. Josh is the boyfriend, in case you wondered.
Laura turns to me and smiles, her eyes amused at what must be a pretty befuddled expression on my face.
‘So, I’ve come all this way to see you guys and you’re kicking me out already?’ I say, half-joking.
‘Not at all. You’re more than welcome to stay in Hyacinth, of course you are. But… well, the offer is there. Cherie is finally – finally! – ready to admit defeat and stay with Frank, at least until the night before the wedding, and she offered. Said she didn’t want her little Moroccan boudoir to feel all neglected.’
I grin at that description. It does sound brilliant. Straight away I can picture it: a little attic hideaway, all silk cushions and joss sticks and bowls of figs…
‘I thought,’ says Laura, walking through to the kitchen, dodging low-flying angels as she goes, ‘that it might be nice. I know you’re going to love it here, but I know you’ll love it even more if you have your own space.’
I look around, at the tree and the streamers and the plastic holly and the big, battered sofa that’s covered in floral fabric and placed strategically in front of the TV. I imagine us all, crammed in here, sharing this space, breathing this air, inhaling this tinsel, being force-fed sickly festive movies about angels’ wings and miracles, while I slowly die inside.
If I have my own space, at least I can watch Bad Santa without worrying that it’s too rude for the kids to see. If I have my own space, I can declare war on Christmas. If I have my own space, I can stretch out and walk round in my knickers and not bother washing the dishes until I’m good and ready.
If I have my own space, I can stay just about in control – surely the greatest Christmas gift of all?
‘You’re right,’ I say, nodding. ‘I would love that.’
‘Good,’ she replies, opening the oven and pulling out a huge, steaming pizza. ‘But tonight, you’re stuck with us – and guess what? We’ve got Elf on DVD…’
I am being crushed. I cannot breathe. I am gulping for my last ever lungful of oxygen before I depart this earth.
Then, suddenly, it is over – and I am free. Free from the powerful embrace of Cherie Moon, proprietor of the Comfort Food Café; owner of the Rockery, and proud purveyor of the most punishing hugs in Britain.
It is the morning after my arrival in Dorset and I am exhausted. This is a completely normal state of affairs for me in the morning. No matter how physically tired I am, my brain refuses to switch off, and I spend at least two hours every night lying awake telling myself I’m being stupid.
Telling myself to just relax. Telling myself that I need to rest, to set aside my worries, to allow my busy mind to be at peace. Counting sheep, imagining Gerard Butler naked, spending my fictional lottery winnings, anything at all other than lie there awake, worrying about the very fact that I am still awake.
But if you’ve ever suffered from insomnia, you’ll know it’s not that easy. The minutes turn into hours and the hours feel like days, and soon you start to yearn for the first sight of dawn creeping through the curtains. Then you can finally give up on your pathetic efforts and get out of bed, crawling from the duvet, grey and haggard, limping down the stairs to seek coffee like Gollum searching for his ring.
This morning, when I limped down the stairs, it was made even worse by the fact that I was in a strange place, kept banging my head on dangling angels and reindeers and had to sip my coffee while being mocked by the world’s biggest Christmas tree.
By the time the others finally started to straggle back into consciousness, I’d been up for two hours, fiddling with my laptop and pretending to work.
I’m a freelance designer, which sounds a lot cooler that it is. I’m not coming up with cutting edge bathroom storage devices for Ikea, or creating the latest catwalk looks for Paris – I’m usually trying to produce bright, clear and attractive marketing materials for housing associations, charities and hospitals.
You know the kind of thing – that leaflet that tells you what to do if you can’t pay your rent on time; or what services the Patient Liaison Panel provides, or how doing a charity hike across the Pennines can help people with cancer. One day, I might even get to throw caution to the wind and indulge in something like a holiday brochure or a theatre programme, who knows?
What it lacks
