The following is a live log of a family holiday dinner, recorded from a fold-out chair that was slightly too low for the table and slightly too high for my self-esteem.
The Build-Up
1:00pm. Arrive. Told dinner is “at three, on the dot.” Everyone nods. Nobody has believed this since 1996.
1:20pm. An uncle asks what exactly it is you do. You explain. He nods like a man hearing about a hobby. He will ask again next year.
1:45pm. Two cousins found in the hallway comparing phone storage. Both have more than your savings.
2:30pm. Gran asks if you are “courting.” Your partner of six years is standing next to you. She waves at them, warmly, like a stranger at a bus stop.
The Delay
3:00pm. The turkey is “nearly ready.”
3:40pm. The turkey is “basically ready, just resting.” So is your dad. Since 2009.
4:15pm. An entire bowl of crisps meant for “after” has gone. The dog suspects the uncle. The uncle is never charged.
Every family dinner has a turkey that is nearly ready and a relative who has been nearly ready to retire since 2009. Neither is coming out of the oven.
The Meal
4:52pm. We sit. Eleven people, nine chairs, two stools from the garage. You get a stool. You always get a stool.
4:53pm. Gravy passed in the wrong direction. A minor diplomatic incident.
5:05pm. Topic: the weather. Safe. Perfect.
5:07pm. Topic: house prices. Someone says “you’ll get there.” Nobody believes it, including them.
5:11pm. Topic changed back to the weather by a mother who has done crisis management unpaid for thirty years.
The Aftermath
6:30pm. Board game. Rules disputed. Someone plays “the way we used to,” a rulebook nobody alive has seen.
7:15pm. Three adults asleep in chairs, mouths open, like baby birds waiting on a pension.
8:00pm. Leaving. Handed enough foil-wrapped leftovers to feed a small village, or one cousin.
8:01pm. In the car, you realise one of these dinners will be the last one with everyone in it. Nobody will announce which. Same again next year. Mostly.