This morning, before breakfast, you ate five roast parsnips split in two with stilton pushed inside.

Then you stood with the fridge door open, grazing on left-over roast potatoes while you thought about what you actually wanted to eat.
On Christmas Eve you ran into loads of people you went to school with. You enthusiastically (drunkenly) update your family: “Sarah Jones has FIVE children now. At our age! And everyone says Tom Smith became an arms dealer!”
Three days later your mum is still bringing up the amount you had to drink. “I don’t care what you say about Tom Smith, but I’ll bet he wasn’t drinking like that in Libya.”
You installed Spotify on your parents’ computer so everyone could choose music. Now you realise you’ve signed yourself up for at least a year of telephone tech support.
It’s insanely hot. When you go outside to fetch drinks (stored on the back step because the fridge is full) the cold air smacks you round the head.
All the good Quality Street have gone. And someone is leaving the empty wrappers in the box, giving you false hope when you glimpse the colour of your favourite chocolate.
Despite being an adult with a job and a place to live during the rest of the year, you are currently 15 and there’s nothing you can do about it. Next year you might join Tom Smith in Libya.
(Not really, you do love these people after all.)

Still at home for Christmas?