AT last Christmas Eve and the worst is over. Presents are wrapped and the fridge is full.
And what's Christmas dinner anyway but a glorified Sunday lunch? All that's left to be done is to get the children to bed sooner rather than later so that Mother Christmas can have the stockings filled before midnight one of the few rituals that even the highest in the land carry out for themselves.
But although the Princess of Wales has doubtless been stashing away bits and bobs at the back of the wardrobe for months, tonight's moon won't catch her creeping across silent bedrooms to find spaces on William and Harry's beds for those lumpy snakes of booty. For the second year running she won't be with them although if last year's St Stephen's Day dash to psychotherapist Susie Orbach is anything to go by Diana is unlikely to spend another Christmas alone.
Her decision last year to forego the annual shindig chez mother in law at Sandringham was forced on her by Queen Elizabeth's divorce ultimatum that arrived barely a week before and the stakes were too high to risk face to face confrontation. This year she will be better prepared. But Christmas for any divorced or separated parent is painful and being with friends is not always the easy option it might seem.
I was divorced Is years ago and this Christmas will be the seventh I have spent without my children. The first year after our separation my ex-husband and I attempted a joint effort on neutral territory with my brother and his wife. It was a disaster and from then on we took it in turns.
The early years were undoubtedly the worst. Christmas is all about ritual and preparation and the excitement it engenders. If I wasn't to short change my kids everything had to feel the same, whoever they were spending Christmas with. I tried not to show the dread I was feeling. But it was hard, very hard. There was the cake to make and ice the cards to paint the edible presents for the grandparents to prepare (biscuits, peppermint creams) their father's present to buy indeed sometimes even his girlfriend's.
Then there was the tree family tradition insisted this was never put up until a couple of days before Christmas, so it was barely in situ before they were off, its silent vigil in the corner of the room serving only to remind me of their absence. And of course there were still those stockings to buy for secretly.
Even their departure on Christmas Eve developed a ritual of its own. While Dad was being shown the glories of the tree and the children filled a suitcase with piles of be ribboned parcels, now destined for another house, I would creep to his waiting car to deposit a sports hold all containing two separate plastic bags of tiny toys, puzzles and other nonsenses for their stockings. Then, all waves and kisses, they'd be gone.
In later years my daughter's eyes would brim with tears. Mine would stay dry until I went back into the sitting room and saw the twinkling tree, now without the sea of gaily coloured shapes foaming under its lower branches.
FRIENDS were very kind. They can't have relished the thought of having a far from sparkly me turning up late on Christmas Eve but I was welcomed as if I was Santa Claus himself. My own experience, however, is that being with children the same age as your own only salts the wound. Stockings get filled around the fire while you just sit there. The dancing, prancing excitement of your friends' offspring the next day is practically unbearable. And as the present opening ritual gets into swing (surprisingly different from family to family) you quickly unwrap your own pathetic pile, leaving the lovingly wrapped offerings handed to you just before they waved goodbye until you think you won't be seen. You do as much washing up and country walking as you can. But the days drag on.
Right from the outset my exhusband and I continued to give the children joint presents so there would be no scope for point scoring. However, if Charles and Diana's respective Christmas cards are anything to go by, it would seem that they have no such compunctions. Christmas appears to be the ultimate battleground. (Though William's apparent expressed desire to stay at Sandringham with his grandparents this year rather than join Dad and the attendant media circus for the annual skiing holiday shows he has a mind of his own and no wish to be caught in the cross fire let alone be part of the ammunition.)
The Prince's 1996 offering features a posed photograph of father flanked by sons in identikit Highland, land owning mode, crisp viyella shirts, sensible jumpers, leaning on shepherd's crooks against a backdrop of moor or glen. Diana's salvo couldn't be more different. It's just a holiday snap taken of the two princes and their cousins, the two little princesses Beatrice and Eleanor (who I hope will be with their mother this Christmas), fresh out of the pool and clad in what came to hand that morning. No sign of
Mum who for once is on the other side of the camera. If this is the public face of their parents' different aspirations what must it be like on the inside?
This year I am spending Christmas on my own with just the cats and Fred and Ginger (on CD) for company. I nearly achieved it two years ago but at the last minute an old friend was so horrified that he decided to invite himself over. Nothing I could say would persuade him that I wasn't an extremely sad case.
No sooner was he ensconced, however, than my needs were forgotten as he reverted to his own brand of Yuletide behaviour of booze and telly watching. I cooked he looked and snored.
This year the door will be barred. I will have three clear days to write and read without interruptions endemic in the in family life.
In the fridge is a half bottle of champagne. Lunch, to be washed down with Pommard 1985, is pan fried breast with chanterelles in creme fraiche super smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. The only tears shed will be when I settle down to watch the all time Capra weepy, his A Wonderful Life. I haven't looked forward to Christmas so much in years.
