Last Christmas , while millions awoke to the obligatory festivities, I lingered in bed until noon savouring the relief that Santa was no longer welcome to visit my home.

There were no smells of turkey wafting through the house nor any chestnuts roasting on an open fire.

And instead of listening to festive songs on endless repeat, I felt myself revelling in the blissful silence.

I hadn’t the faintest idea what my family was up to today, and as I made myself an omelette, I mused over why we hadn’t thought to cancel the holidays long ago.

For years I’d watched mum slaving away behind the scenes to fill mine and my quadruplet brothers’ childhood with all the magic she could muster.

Often that meant a house decorated to the hilt for every conceivable holiday, large gatherings, and an

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