I explained about the queue in Debenhams and asked for his help, citing Glenn's Attention-Deficit Syndrome. On our way back to the queue, the fat elf explained that he'd just been sacked from his job as an under-manager at NatWest. He said elf work was harder than it looked — cheeriness didn't come easily to him. I sympathised.

"Perhaps we can meet up for a drink one night," he said. I looked at his weak eyes and his beer gut spilling over his green tights, and gave him a false telephone number. The fat elf took us to the front of the queue by saying, "Make way, make way, for this tragic family." The queue parted with much speculation as to which of the three of us was terminally ill.

Santa was a disgrace: his beard was hanging off, and he'd made no attempt to hide his Reebok trainers. However, William was sufficiently deceived and asked for a Barbie Hairdressing Salon.

Saturday, November 27, 1999 Wisteria Walk, Ashby-le-la-Zouch, Leicestershire

My mother married for the fourth time today. She is on the way to being the Elizabeth Taylor of Ashby-de-la-Zouch. Unfortunately, her bridegroom, Ivan Braithwaite, had been encouraged by his night-school creative-writing teacher to write a "millennium marriage service". I had to look away when he turned to my mother and vowed, "Pauline, my soon-to-be wife, I swear to love you emotionally, spiritually and physically, forever, plus one more day."

When my mother replied, "Ivan, my soon-to-be husband, I swear to be supportive of your life choices, aware of your hidden vulnerability, and fully cognisant of your sexual needs", I almost ran from the registrar's office. My mother didn't actually say "I do", because she got a rogue hat-feather stuck down her throat and had a choking fit. Does this make the marriage invalid? I hope so.