It has begun... it’s a magical time of year and as I hung a long string of colourful mini festive stockings hand filled with a feast of chocolate surprises in my son’s room I declared it officially open… Christmas that is. I am possibly willing it on a little as it is our daughter’s debut and I want to make it the sparkliest, twinkliest festive period ever. Actually, I have barely got over the traumas of Xmas 2012. Rewind a year and I was heavily and uncomfortably pregnant, as round as Santa’s bulging hessian sack, and then some.

Even walking the length of our kitchen was an effort and how on earth I managed to lift the largest breasted bird I had ever stuffed into our oven was nothing short of miraculous.

Suffice to say last year, however lovely and joyous, was an effort. A great big pregnant effort. Christmas eve night was verging on disasterous, my family had travelled up from Dorset, delightfully eccentric mother plus brother and two dogs. In the early hours of Christmas Day I was woken by a rumpus; my mother panicking that her dog Rosie was having trouble putting one foot in front of the other. My first thoughts were of the shifty little port my mother had had as a nightcap. Could her equally delightfully eccentric neurotic canine have knocked some back? I wearily rushed to the SOS call but as I reached the top of the stairs I slipped on the first step and slid on my derriere all the way to the bottom. The panic was shortlived, the dog seemed to regain its balance and so did I. My brother’s dog Mr Smith, a troublesome young bassett hound, spent Christmas day wanting to chew everything in sight and had thoughtfully personalised many of the presents around the Christmas tree with toothmarks.

My mother bought socks for husband, son and brother, don’t think she realised they were knee high or maybe for men with impossibly long ankles.

Twelve months on and I am going to repeat the process all over again. Lessons learned from last year? Plenty!

We have decided to go up to Birmingham for the German Christmas markets. My son hasn’t been to Birmingham since he was a baby... he won’t remember but I certainly do recall what could have turned into a frantic search for Ben and my mother... The train ride up took forever but the driver seemed to unintentionally entertain his passengers by making several announcements via the PA at the very same time as spilling coffee all over his nether regions - hot coffee seeping through the Network Rail-provided nylon trousers must have been painful. We all heard it. Through every carriage from first class to standard. Ouch! We still made it to the beating heart of the West Midlands. I had an interview, you see. So my DEM (delightfully eccentric mother) wheeled Ben in his pushchair off towards the Bullring with strict instructions to answer my mobile phone, I would call her when I was done.

Interview over and I found a phone box and called as promised. I called again and again and several more times over. No answer. As I stood frantic with worry in a lonely phone box in Brum my oblivious DEM wheeled Ben by, and I shot out of the box delighted at the chance reunion. Phew. (To add to all the confusion it emerged my DEM thought that she was in Bristol).

I have given her plenty of notice that this year she will be spending Christmas in Chippy... dog ‘n’ all!