I wouldn’t be at the office; I would be at home morning, noon and evening with my family. Tick.
I would respond bleary-eyed to the dawn shouting of my child and get to see her just after sleep and get to hear her stories of what happened during the night when she wasn’t sleeping, ever. Tick.
I would get to bring my wife her morning coffee in bed, served with tons of kisses and cuddles from a snuggly child. Tick.
I would get to have porridge for breakfast with my daughter and we would muck about all morning. Tick.
I would get to see her wonder at the Father Christmas Tree lights and the wrapped presents underneath. Tick.
I would get to sit down to a scrumptious lunch and hear my daughter negotiating skilfully on the amount of vegetables she has to eat. Tick.
I would get to put her to bed for an afternoon nap and read her stories. Tick.
I would get to pretend to sleep in the armchair in her room while she pretended to close her eyes. Tick.
I would actually fall asleep for a while listening to her gentle breathing as she succumbed to the energy sapping of the morning’s activities. Tick.
I would get to spend some quiet alone time with my wife downstairs. Tick.
I would get to play with her before tea and sit with her while she ate, discussing what happened yesterday (could actually be yesterday or could be a year ago), and what she wanted to do tomorrow (could be tomorrow, could be next year). Tick.
But hang on.
I would have to eat turkey and sprouts, Christmas pud and cake, chocolates, crisps and nuts, Quality Street, drink champagne, wine and beer every day, spend all my money on scooters and Ben and Holly DVDs, listen to Fairy Tale of New York and Noddy Holder constantly, watch endless repeats of Only Fools and Horses. I would get super-sized in no time. I would never leave the house and eventually they would have to take out the living room windows to get a crane in, use huge levers to wedge me out of my armchair while my child looked up with fleeting interest from her puzzles, to see me being winched out of the house and into a waiting transport to a mental institution.
So I’m glad it’s not Christmas every day. Except for the stupendous joy that it would be to dance crazily around the living room every day with my daughter to the Strictly Christmas Special while my wife laughed her head off at us. That would be good.
