Only two brussel sprouts remain untouched on my plate, as I stare into its ceramic whiteness, imagining somewhere else I would rather be. The inane, shallow chatter around me is more reminiscent of one of my boss’ dinner parties, something I came to escape from.

When did Christmas change? I remeber a time when my whole existence circled around this one day of the year. I woke up at 5AM and ran down the hall, my eyes wide with the knowledge of presents and food and happy faces.

Now I seem to be looking forward only to the end of the day, when the last glass of wine is thrown down my throat and I finally retreat to bed. Deep in the folds of my host’s duvet I will sleep, and think of a time when sleeping wouldn’t even be an option.

I miss those days: being young, waiting for Santa, when even the smallest tradition was strictly enforced, because Christmas must be perfect.

Somehow, as I play absent-mindedly with the leaves of my sprout, this seems far from perfect. This feels unbearable.