No one managed Christmas better than Andrea. Her Christmas was a legend with children, grandchildren and friends. Her cakes; her pies; her turkey: all were beyond compare.
Every year she invited a dozen or more people for Christmas dinner.
Every Boxing Day, exhausted but satisfied, she reminded herself how glad she was she’d done it.
Last year, with just two weeks to go, disaster struck. She broke her wrist. What could she do? Desperate, she wrote an email full of apology with a list of tasks she couldn’t manage herself. She sent it round to everyone she’d invited.
Andrea spent Christmas Day sitting in an armchair, eating food cooked by other people. She hated every moment. She knew the Christmas arrangements she’d planned would have been so much better.
She watched, frustrated, as her guests washed up and put things away in the wrong places. She itched to do it herself.
She looked on as her grandchildren opened presents someone had swathed in clumsy homemade paper. She wished she’d been able to wrap them herself in tasteful perfection, as she’d done every other year.
The day dragged itself wearily to its end.
On Boxing Day, her youngest son stumbled downstairs just before lunch. Sighing noisily, he rubbed his stomach, settling down to another beer and a hunk hewn from the Christmas cake. A bought cake. He’d iced it himself, late on Christmas Eve after a trip to the pub, forgetting to use marzipan. It was yellowing already, Andrea saw.
She could stand it no longer. She breathed deeply, her apology on the tip of her tongue. She’d make it up to them next year, she’d promise. Everything would go back to normal. She’d outdo herself.
Before she had a chance to speak, her son leaned over and ruffled her hair.
“Thanks for everything, Mum,” he grunted. “Best Christmas ever.”
Merry Christmas. If this story made you think, come on over to the Speechcontacts website http://www.getmeoffthehook.com/speechcontacts/news.php?id=94 to read more about the importance of storytelling.