IT was half past whatever the time we had told our guests to arrive and I was in the kitchen. The latter, in both temperature and atmosphere, had taken on the persona of a Turkish bath in downtown Ankara which people would pay good money to use. All steam and aromatic herbal smells. The cooker was practically pulsating, much against its will because it prefers not to have to reach its optimum temperature more than once a year and we had already passed this date with the pork pie on Christmas Eve. Even so, I had cajoled and threatened it into co- operating with both the bird and the roast potatoes. I was wearing the assortment of clothes I'd grabbed as I groped my way out of bed at 6.30am that morning, caring nothing for either fashion nor matching accessories. By now they were encrusted with a range of stains which would have sent a health inspector rushing to find his or her thickest notebook, my hair was awry and probably contained at least one chipolata, and I sported at least two sticking plasters. These were courtesy of my new Japanese set of the 'best knives in the world – finger amputation a speciality'. Oh yes, and one burn when a hot walnut fell on me. Don't ask! I'd just reached the panic point of wondering how I was going to heave a bird which was approximately the size of a baby hippo onto our giant serving dish. This usually resides on the top shelf of my wardrobe because, if it is placed anywhere else, someone is eventually going to place something bigger and heavier on top of it, like a lawnmower, and break it. The transferring of the bird onto the plate is always a fraught moment because if there's one slip the fat goes all over the floor and turns the quarry tiles into a highly dangerous greasy rink. Not for the first time would I slalom across the room desperately juggling the sprouts... I did, with help, manage the job, only gaining a few more fat stains on my clothing and the odd bit of chestnut stuffing. Then the doorbell rang. Now I don't want to give the impression I had been doing all the food preparation myself. I hadn't, my daughter had shared the task too, but then disappeared. Then, with the ringing of the doorbell and the arrival of the rest of the family, she appeared, no, sashayed, out of the sitting room. Make-up perfect, not a hair out of place. Dressed in her best frock, with unladdered and un- greasy tights, high heels and varnished nails. She was, in the words we usually describe such a creature in our house, frou-froued up. She delicately tripped to the door, glass of sherry in hand, and offered a festive welcome. Me, I debated throwing myself under the kitchen table, but had to grin and bear it, flicking a bit of smoked salmon out of my eyebrows and forcing a somewhat strained smile. She does it every year, I never know how! All those 'how to survive' Christmas articles give you advice which always includes 'save an hour to get yourself ready for the big meal'. And which hour would that be, smart a...?

Christmas Eve had begun well with the cry of: 'Do you realise the cat's sitting on your Christmas cake?' It was, I think, a rhetorical question, I don't think that anyone would really think I would be happy to have a large ginger cat bedded down on a heavy fruit cake. I dashed into the kitchen and, sure enough, there was the cat draped seductively on top of my cake, thankfully wrapped in two layers of grease-proof paper and a layer of thick foil. The cake, not the cat. Now you may ask, and I don't mind if you do, why on earth would anyone put a cake, Christmas or otherwise, on top of a kitchen cabinet? Simple, no room elsewhere and also I like to utilise a totally useless space. The space is because whoever designs kitchens goes for looks rather than usability, rather like most men do. There's a nice high rim of expensive blonde wood round the top of the cabinets whereas I would rather have another set of cupboards. Instead, there's a whole raft of space which merely gathers dust. And cats. The cats go up there to get out of the way. Either because they're cross, they've had the wrong cat food again or because they are avoiding being put outside. Or all three. They know full well we can't get them because they're up there, not without a ladder and a very long reach. For some time there was a tasteful arrangement of dried flowers and leaves decorating this utility area, and their favourite game was to push behind it, leaving it teetering on the edge. It always amazes me that they get up there at all. The top is at least five times higher from the kitchen counters than a standing cat. I know this because once, on a slow day, I measured it, holding up a standing cat at various intervals. This didn't go down well with the furry measure. They usually leap onto the counter then make the monumental leap up to the top, clearing the rim. On a few occasions there's been a miscalculation and there comes the sound of claws scraping down woodwork followed by a thump, but not often. If it does happen, the victim pretends it hasn't, or that it meant to abseil down the cupboards just for a bit of fun. Just like humans do when they trip over in the street and then pretend they were examining the paving stones and that the grazes on elbows and knees aren't hurting one little bit. Coming down is a bit more difficult, especially if there are pans and dishes to be avoided on the counter, and more than once plates have crashed to the floor. But they still go up to their refuge, and the only way I know they're up there is the feeling that someone is watching me from a hidden place, beady eyed and triumphant. Or sometimes there's a tell-tale tail hanging down. To rescue the cake without damage and inveigle the cat down I had to open a tin of rabbit and chicken and pretend to give it to the stray cat, a trick which never fails. A heavy thud indicated this had worked again, as a ginger blur narrowly missed a bowl of trifle and landed on the floor. The cake was unharmed, if slightly dented in the middle, but an extra lump of icing took care of that. Of course, nobody has yet eaten any, certainly nobody who noticed that it had been used as a feline feather bed for goodness knows how long.