THOUGHTS inevitably turn to Christmas in mid-November - the lights are going on, the trees going up, the shops are dusting all the goods they've had on the shelves since September.

I'll have a funny old Christmas this year, because for the first time ever I won't be at home, not even in the country, and I won't be doing much cooking.

Well that's the plan anyway.

As I'm going to be flying, and carrying gifts to my elder daughter and her family, I've requested that all presents be fairly light. A request which has fallen on deaf ears as there's already a large stainless steel object in jolly Santa wrapping waiting to fill up half my suitcase.

I fear I'm going to have to sneak into the airport praying there are 54 people on the plane carrying nothing but a tiny briefcase each and my overweight cases will be allowed through without penalty. Sadly, I'm probably already on BA's blacklist, noted down as 'the woman who brought a gazebo home in her luggage' earlier in the year.

When I finally stagger off the plane in the late evening there will be only one and a half days left of shopping time - because Germany doesn't hold much truck with late night opening, all day shopping or supermarkets open practically up until the moment Santa steps on the slates.

Relaxing

Shops will shut their doors firmly at 4pm, and a German door shutter is not someone to be trifled with. After that they probably won't open again for several days, so we are going to be spared the visit to Ikea and the traipse round the local branch of C and A and 44 other German stores.

So it will be relaxing, just a quiet family affair with the merry sound of two grandchildren squabbling over their new gifts and my son-in-law and I in competition to see who can keep awake the longest after Christmas dinner. I usually win, but only by five minutes.

I can't, however, get used to the idea that I won't need any Christmas preparation here. I've been putting back packs of raisins and sultanas in the shops for the past six weeks, telling myself firmly that I'm not making cakes or puddings.

This should be a relief to all, because cake and pudding making are not always successful. There was the dreadful year I unwrapped the pudding on Christmas morning, a pudding which was steeped in spirits and wrapped in foil, only to find it was covered in a furry layer of green mould.

Don't ask me why something which had absorbed enough alcohol to be three times over the driving limit should develop green fur, but it had, and even though I was fleetingly tempted to shave it with my husband's razor we did without in the end.

Then there was the year of the Christmas icing which refused to set, a story which I have probably told before but who cares.

I seem to remember that someone had suggested I use glucose in the icing to make it glossy, which I did, and the result looked good. I've never bothered with piping artistic little bits of icing onto my cakes, they always seem to roll off and the only year I tried to write 'Merry Christmas to one and All', the cake finally read 'eerie mishmas to yall' which sounded like some kind of spy code.

No, I do the traditional snow scene and place the tiny trees and Santas on the top.

I put it in a cool place to set but it didn't. It didn't set the first day, nor the second and on the third day our tortoiseshell cat sat on it momentarily and left an interesting pattern of black and white hair around the snow and Santa had a ginger beard. Various people had suggested re-icing it which left me with the quandary of whether to remove the furry icing or leave it and hope it wouldn't work its way through.

The family indicated they wouldn't eat a cat hairy cake so eventually we gave it to the squirrels, who I swear could be seen sitting up an oak tree desperately trying to tear their tiny little paws apart as they stuck to the icing. For all I know it is still lying in some corner of a branch, still sticky.

The worst Christmas I ever had was the Christmas I had flu. It started with a cold, and I struggled through the week wrapping gifts, shopping for food and doing the last minute panic buying (the big salmon etc.)

By Christmas Eve I was no better and took myself off to bed in a sorry state, not even remembering the reindeers' mince pies.

In the morning I woke bleary eyed with shaking hands and legs like jelly. Which is how I normally awake on Christmas morning but this time no alcohol had passed my lips.

After being a brave little soldier and watching the children open their gifts (it was the year some kind relative had bought my son a space gun which had flashing lights and a siren which does not go well with a splitting headache) I knew I couldn't go on.

I went tearfully to bed, giving a rough guide to what food there was and where it was and everyone was very kind and said they would cook the dinner. By everyone I mean husband and three children.

All I wanted was to be left alone to sink into a fever ridden sleep but of course I couldn't.

Every few minutes one or the other popped their heads round the door with inquiries. Where was this? Where was that? Where was the turkey tin? Which end do you stuff a turkey? Was the stuff in the big green basin the stuffing or was it the festive bread pudding? What shall I do with the giblets? (you could tell I was ill I didn't rise to that one).

Swore

The children were less subtle. 'Dad's dropped the chipolatas on the floor twice and washed them under the tap', Dad gave the giblets to the dog and she's been sick. Do you think Dad should have put the sprouts on at the same time as he put the turkey in the oven? Dad swore at me just because I told him carrots have to be cut up.

I must have lost consciousness for a while because I awoke to find Dad standing over me with a large tumbler of something which looked like Kaolin and Morphine. 'I've made you some Bailey's' he said. 'We don't have any Bailey's' I said. 'No', he said proudly, 'I made it myself from a recipe in the paper. All you need is cream and whisky'.

He thrust the glass into my hand and I noted the cream and whisky were at odds with one another, the former floating around in little blobs.

It seemed mean to mention it was curdled, but I did and he went off in a huff, only to return with a brimming plate of food, including a whole turkey leg a large pile of burnt stuffing and some lovely yellow sprouts.

I rose to the occasion, praised my clever family and sent them off to eat their own festive meal.

Then I staggered out of bed to open the door to let the dog, fresh from heaving her stomach contents onto the kitchen floor and so a trifle peckish, into the room.

'Fancy a lovely turkey dinner old girl' I said?

And of course she did.