Spectator

Today

The family's all gathered at the flat for Christmas. Lizzie got here last night and Becky & Richard arrived this morning. As we sat in the sitting room and chatted Liz said "Where's the Christmassy music, then?" "Oh, sorry," I said and whacked on the Waitresses and Abba.

Liz asked me if I'd remembered to bring "Phil Spector's Christmas Album" from home. "No", I said "But I'm sure we can download it from Napster." Which I did and am now listening to.

In My Day

Every family has its own Christmas traditions, I'm sure, including the sort of entertainment. When we lived at Rowan Avenue the Christmas ritual always involved popping next door to the Levetts for a morning drink before we separated to celebrate in our own ways.

John would have put up a small, dense tree, hung with lights in the form of old-fashioned coaches. He always preferred to cut this tree himself, trudging through Friston Forest with little Matthew trailing behind disconsolately in the mud, wailing about being wet and cold. As our tree wasn't lit until we could light the candles (magical enough), Lizzie would be enchanted by this softly glowing tree.

In the background, barely audible, Phil Spector's Christmas album would be playing. As we grown-ups chatted and drank wine, ignoring the music, Liz would be drinking in the music. No wonder it's an indelible part of her list of Christmas rituals.

When the album was re-released a few years ago, we really had no option but to buy one for Liz. Shame she'd already snapped up about five copies herself.