"What do you mean, 'it'll be ready at half past eleven'?!!!"
The shouty voice from downstairs dimly nagged at my barely awakeness. Christmas morning is so much more civilised as an adult.
"Half past eleven??!?!?"
Oh! The luxury of lying in bed hearing the LTLP shouting at somebody else. Especially as I'd been concerned that the previous evening's shouting (object of shouting: me, subject of shouting: misunderstanding about time of return from Village Pub) might drag on into Christmas Day itself.
And that would have been disrespectful to the little baby Jesus.
The situation gradually clarified itself as I listened on. Without going into too much family detail, I'm sure at some point you've joked about old people getting up in the middle of the night to put the roast on.
Generally, however, they have the courtesy to do this in their own home, with their own roast. Rather than, say, with my Christmas turkey.
I pulled on some trousers and went down in search of tea. The luscious smell of cooking filled the house.