At Christmas, all roads lead home, but there is always more than one road to take. This year, in green and grey Truro, I can hear my mother still snoring through the floorboards. The day waits chilly and pregnant, and when I can smell the coffee, I'll know to come out. Then we'll drop this Christmas into the silent past, its many imperfections forgotten, and make a perfect new year. I remember that there is no ideal Christmas, only the one Christmas you decide to make yourself.