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Truly. It’s actually quite nice to be reminded of my pre-Millie job – one thing at least that I know I’m good at.
            I come down from my high enough to notice that Fi’s looking a little shocked, and I realise that the flat is a tip. Millie’s in a washed-out, slightly too small Babygro and I’m in my tracksuit and slippers. The TV’s blaring – I’m glued to the home-makeover cable TV channel, to which I’ve become perversely addicted – and Tim’s sprawled on the sofa sleeping off last night’s Comedy Club team-bonding session in honour of his new boss, Alex, thanks to a major restructuring programme at the bank. (To be honest, the IT department seems to get a new boss every six months.)
            For my part, I’m more than a little taken aback to hear that my desk and my entire caseload of clients have been taken over (by Simon, no less). What did I expect, I guess? So much for my fervent belief in my own indispensability.
            After filling me in on the finer details of the big Jolie Naturelle win – and of course all the office, Shoe Princess and Trash Queenz goss – for the first time Fi broaches the subject of my return to work in the new year.
            ‘One step at a time,’ I reassure her unconvincingly. For while the thought of getting dressed in a suit and heels and reading the newspaper on the tube, followed by sitting at my calm, organised desk with a cup of coffee in hand, is immensely appealing, I’m yet to get my brain around the logistics of actually making it happen. It seems nothing short of masochistic to return to work on the sum total of four hours’ sleep a night. (No man I’ve ever worked with would contemplate it, that’s for sure.) And then of course there’s the small issue of physically leaving Millie  ...
            I smokescreen my uncharacteristic fluffiness with a change of topic that’s sure to please.
            ‘So, how’s Marco, anyway?’ I know she’s dying to tell. ‘Is it official? Are you dating yet?’
            ‘No. Well, at least I don’t think so. I don’t want to ask him, anyway. Just in case I jinx it.’
            ‘But you see him practically every day, don’t you?’ And she’s always telling me it’s the best sex she’s ever had.
            ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m just not sure if he’s ready to move on to the next stage yet. I don’t want to pressure him.’
            ‘Sure,’ I agree reassuringly. I’m simply happy that she’s happy.
            The doorbell rings and Fi lets Kate in (she’s here for her regular aunt’s Saturday-morning frolic with Millie) and brings me a letter that had slipped under the hall mat.
            I hold the solitary envelope. The air-mail sticker and maple-leaf stamp send a shiver down my spine. It’s the first week of December, and our first Christmas card has arrived.
            This is no ordinary card, either. It is Aunt Margaret’s – the official matriarch and family scribe of the Meadows clan. She is Tim’s dad’s eldest sister, who emigrated to Canada in 1956. And her card is always the first to arrive.
            I will say one thing about Tim’s family: they may never win the Waltons’ Nuclear Family of the Year Award, but they are prolific and generous correspondents. He’s forever getting letters from his mum and dad in Spain (they’ve got a retirement villa there) and emails from his brother in New York (where he’s a museum curator). Must be all those years at boarding school. And thanks to Aunt Margaret’s enclosed festive newsletter, we’ll know all there is to know about most of Tim’s blood relatives. The six-page epic is the pinnacle of her year’s meticulous investigative journalism.
            I place the card in pride of place at the centre of the mantelpiece, wondering when I am ever going to get around to our cards, let alone Christmas shopping.
            Kate does a whizz round with the vacuum cleaner