TO be completely honest, my contribution to our family Christmas is fairly limited.

My wife is the undisputed star. She does all the planning, the worrying, the shopping, the cooking of the dinner, and the general making of the magic.

My one and only job is to make the breakfasts for everyone. It’s all part of the tradition which starts with the “kids” – now 23, 21, 20 and 16 – piling into our bedroom at some unearthly hour with their stockings filled with silly bits and pieces.

This year, the bits and pieces meant that I woke up to the sound of a kazoo while I choked on a bedroom full of bubbles.

Once the stockings have been emptied, we head downstairs for a fry-up before opening the main presents.

The fry-up is Dad’s job and, given the fact that us men struggle to multi-task, it represents a major challenge.

In previous years, a lack of forward planning on the breakfast front has led to confusion and unnecessary stress, so this year, I vowed to be more professional. I took orders the night before and compiled a list on my iPad. I had a full note of how many sausages (pork or veggie) everyone wanted, what type of eggs (scrambled or fried), how many pieces of bacon (well done or not well done), beans or no beans, mushrooms or no mushrooms, fried bread or no fried bread, tomatoes or no tomatoes, white toast or brown toast.

When the time came, I was ready. I knew exactly what was required for each individual member of the family. I had four pans on the go on our lovely new hob in our lovely new kitchen. There was a pan exclusively for veggie stuff. And, crucially, there was the warming drawer in our new oven.

The new kitchen is my wife’s pride and joy. It was the year’s big purchase and, at times like these, it’s hard to argue that it wasn’t money well spent.

The breakfast operation went like clockwork. I had my iPad open on the worktop and, as each bit of food was cooked, it was expertly juggled into the warming drawer, ready to be served, piping hot.

The breakfasts were delivered to the table one after the other, perfectly cooked, and without anyone having to wait. If I say so myself, I’d played a blinder.

The compliments flowed: “That was brilliant, Dad.” “Yeah, Dad, spot on.” Even my wife acknowledged: “That was lovely.”

The euphoria was short-lived. As the dust settled, and the breakfast pans were cleared away, the terrible truth emerged. I must have had the flame too high, or the frying pan too close to the wall, because a large, ugly brown scorch mark had stretched up the stylish, white, new panelling behind the hob.

My blood turned to ice and a knot formed in my stomach. Christmas was only just starting and, somehow, I’d managed to burn the new kitchen. Not my new kitchen. My wife’s new kitchen.

I prepared myself for a cold Christmas Day in the doghouse and sheepishly uttered the word: “Sorry.”

My wife paused and then said: “Oh, don’t worry.” Then, with an understanding smile, she added: “These things happen.”

I think it will go down as a Christmas miracle.

The answers they give

ANOTHER part of our family Christmas is a game of “Articulate” – a board game where you have to explain words on a card to your partner. This year’s highlights were as follows:

Clue: Two weeks. Correct answer: Fortnight. My daughter’s answer: Notice.

Clue: Black and white bird that likes to collect shiny things. Correct answer: Magpie. My youngest son’s answer: Penguin.

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