A true and accurate account of Christmas with the family Terry. Up north, like.

Mon 22nd Dec
The train home for Christmas is always exciting and full of seasonal cheer. Once you’ve got over the jostling for space, elbows in your face and pensioners with bad attitude who are clearly sitting in your pre-booked seat and must MOVE, dodgy hip or not.

My little sister is waiting to greet me at Chester station. At first I don’t notice her as she is wearing some kind of cunning disguise. A Santa disguise.
Sam, my folks’ six-stone bundle of Labrador fun, is accompanying her. He is wearing reindeer antlers at a jaunty angle, tied under his chin with a ribbon. Apparently they drove to town dressed like that, even stopping for petrol on the way.
‘Mazing.

Get back to Terry Towers, and within the first 30 minutes Sam has stuck his tongue in my mouth, bitten me on the elbow and broken my dad’s toe. He is a BAD DOG, but oh, so very handsome.

Tue 23rd Dec
2pm My sister heads off to her work Christmas lunch. She says she’s not planning to drink very much and will be back around tea time.

2am My sister is standing outside my parent’s bedroom calling for our mum. She’s fallen down the stairs outside Rosie’s, Chester’s premier nitespot, and has a cut on her head and blood down her dress.
You can’t buy class like that.

Wed 24th Dec – Christmas Eve
Mrs Terry informs me I have a moustache.
I like to pride myself on being hair free and carefree so have never considered facial hair a problem area. Mrs Terry begs to differ. So offended is she by the sight of my ‘lustrous and flowing’ lip hair that she offers to pay to have it removed and even drives me to the salon.

It really bloody hurts but at least I will wake up on Christmas Day ‘tache free

Thurs 25th Dec – Christmas Day
Wake up with a moustache. A rash moustache.
A bad reaction to the wax has left me with a fine coating of red pimples all over my upper lip.
Mrs Terry chooses today to relate that when she first fell pregnant with me my dad wanted her to abort.

It is unclear whether the sight of the rash has prompted this outburst.

Fri 26th Dec – Boxing Day
The red ‘tache has gone and been replaced by pulsating white-heads. I look pestilent and refuse to leave the house.
“Don’t squeeze them,” advises my mum.
“Of course not, Mum, I’m not stupid,” I reply

Sat 27th Dec
I have squeezed the spots.
Catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror in M&S and realise that the combination of red scabs and industrial strength foundation I’ve been forced to slather on make me look as though I’m hiding a shaving rash.
I look like a tranny. And not a very convincing one.

Sun 28th Dec
A peaceful day.
The dog was driven into a biting frenzy by the hits of Michael Jackson, Mr Terry wore a false nose and glasses combo all day for reasons known only to himself and Mrs Terry brought out the crackers and Christmas pudding (mysteriously absent from Christmas Day itself – it subsequently transpired she’d forgotten where she’d hidden them) out.
In Terry Towers terms, a quiet one.

Mon 29th Dec
Back to the ridiculous, loveable, unpredictable mess that is London. No wonder I love it so, it’s a home from home