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Every year, for as long as I can remember, I have been unable to contain my excitement for Christmas. And every year, for as long as I can remember, I have been told that, as I get older, I will lose this. Nineteen years and counting, and this theory has yet to be proven correct.

True, these days, the point in the year at which I dust off my Christmas playlist is a lot later than it used to be (it is getting a good airing right now, but we’ll just call that research); and I can (normally) manage to sleep in until past five on Christmas morning. I have also finally (albeit reluctantly) come to terms with my dislike for mince pies. But, for all this, I still, fundamentally, channel a five-year-old when it comes to Christmas.

The day itself invariably goes by too quickly – before you know it, the festive period is over, and you are left with nothing but serious questions regarding your decision to hang decorations in early November. All the weeks of ‘white Christmas’ predictions, poor-to-mediocre school recitals and emotionally intelligent penguins ultimately boil down to just one day, and, when it’s all over, you feel sort of flat and pointless.

But that’s the great thing about Christmas Eve – on that day, you’re still living in the glow of Christmas anticipation, and the Post-Yuletide Blues are the furthest thing from your mind. Step aside, December 25th: the 24th is taking over! And nowhere is this truer than in my household where, not satisfied with our standard 24-hour ration of Christmas Eve, we have taken matters into our own hands and simply decided to extend it. 

Christmas Eve Part A (commonly known as 23rd December) should be spent entirely in pyjamas – normal daytime attire is strictly prohibited. Don’t let the sleep-wear fool you, however, because this is serious business. In what is surely the most hotly anticipated event in the culinary calendar, my sister and I undertake a baking contest to make Paul and Mary sweat. Last year’s gingerbread house challenge ended in heartbreak for me, as I went for style over substance and somehow managed to end up with neither. My sister has, predictably, not let me forget this ever since – but, should she read this, she should know that she is headed for total devastation with this year’s nativity-themed task. In the nicest, most Christmassy way possible, of course.

Christmas Eve Part B (AKA the normal person’s Christmas Eve) has a rather more relaxed feel to it. I watch the Muppet Christmas Carol; my sister, the Grinch (we are resigned never to agree on which is best). I attempt to reassert my baking authority by making cinnamon buns (most of which invariably end up having to be thrown away due to the sheer abundance of food over the festive period), and I get far too het up about the presentation of my final few presents to be wrapped. The day ends – most festively – with takeaway pizza in front of the Gavin and Stacey Christmas special, before – rather more festively – a church service.

With every passing year in our household, Christmas Eve seems to get bigger and bigger: the pyjamas get more whimsical, the baking gets harder, and the day actually gets longer. On reflection, therefore, perhaps they all were right: every year, for as long as I can remember, the shine on Christmas Day has got that little bit duller. But that is only because Christmas Eve has got so darn good.