I think I've found the most satisfying of all the deadly sins for the festive season. Gluttony makes you fat and uncomfortable. It empties the tin of Quality Street, turns the turkey into something that could model Dolcé and Gabanna and makes mincemeat of tiny pies. Avarice is never a good thing in the season of giving; envy is inevitable for a widow, especially when you see happy wives being showered with gifts from loving, living husbands. Wrath is the natural bi-product of a game of Trivial Pursuit. Lust...sorry, what's that? Oh yes, I remember, it's the thing I have to keep suppressed. I sit on it like an unruly child in a game of bundle, lock it under the stairs of my libido and try to pretend it doesn't exist. Pride is something I felt last night when I watched my little Alice singing her heart out at the school carol concert, but I think feeling it for your child doesn't really count as a mortal sin. So that just leaves sloth.

Sloth is the name of the most unappealing creature on God's green earth, but it's also the name of a certain widow, sitting in her dressing gown on the last Tuesday before Christmas. I'm wearing snuggley Timberland socks and a big smile, because I know the holidays have begun and I have no particular place to go until the New Year. I love being at home for Christmas. I love the luxury of not having to get dressed and stand on parade whilst any number of ruddy-cheeked strangers and dubious relatives come calling with gifts that you cannot accept without the guilt of knowing that you haven't got anything to give in return. Widowhood makes you want to be a recluse at Christmas. Widowhood makes home a sanctuary, a place where you can retreat from the enforced jollity of the festive season and just be.

In the early years I felt compelled to join in with family celebrations, even though the very act of being with loving couples made me unbearably sad. But I had to hide my sadness. I was not allowed to be melancholy because it would be seen as an indulgence that would spoil other people's enjoyment of Christmas. So I hid my bitterness, my longing to drive back home to where I felt safe and secure. I did it for my girls, because their happiness was, and is, my priority. And then one year I decided I was strong enough to declare that I would be at home for Christmas. There would be no long drive, and no Christmas morning sitting alone in a strange bed; it would be just my girls and me - together, but alone. And even though it sounds like a lonely way to spend Christmas, it was the most magical time. We stayed in our pyjamas until midday, or all day if we felt like it. We played together, laughed together, cooked together and enjoyed a Christmas lunch the Rosie and Alice declared to be the best ever. I don't think any widowed person should be made to feel that it is wrong to stay at home for Christmas. It's where we feel safe, and it's where we don't to have to wear the brittle mask of normalcy. This year we're at home and I'm feeling so relaxed that even the simple task of getting dressed seems like way too much effort.

I'm all worn out from a day of cleaning. Yesterday I was on my knees, scrubbing the bathroom floors. I like a clean bathroom, but sadly the sparkling taps and immaculate porcelain cannot disguise the fact that there is a really unpleasant smell coming from the loft above. I have a dead rodent. I cannot bear to go up and deal with it; I've poked my head up through the hatch, I can't see anything festering within arm's length, and I'm just too cowardly to crawl around on all fours and find the offending object. I have decided to leave whatever has died in the dry atmosphere of the loft, to enjoy a slow mummification. My friend Julie paid her daughter £15.00 to go under the floorboards and retrieve a dead rat, but my attic is just too dangerous a place to send a small child. If I still had my Meccano set I could probably have built a rat recovery vehicle, but I think the best thing is to invest heavily in air fresheners and make like it didn't happen.

Speaking of unwanted visitors, I have to confess that my strange affliction of accepting invitations from anybody who asks has struck again. On Sunday, we were just getting into the car to set off to visit my parents when a lady from the village came to call. Now, she's a delightful woman, and she kindly asked if we would come over for drinks later that day. I told her we were off to Sidmouth and she said it was a pity that we would miss her annual village drinks party. I thought that would be the end of it, but then she suggested that I bring the girls over after church on Christmas Day. No, I hear you say. No, not Christmas morning at half past full-length Rudolf cartoon, just when you are rubbing the sleep from your eyes and thinking about smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. But yes, oh yes. I did. I said it. Before I had the chance to think about all the implications of being in a strange house, with strange grandchildren and their attendant grandparents, with nothing but polite conversation and a small glass of sherry to hide behind, I said yes.

I'm now faced with the tricky task of rescinding my acceptance and telling the kindly lady that Rosie has flu (true), Alice has suspected mumps (partly true) and that I have broken out in the strange lesions normally associated with bubonic plague (not true in any sense of the word true, but I have been quite near a bad rat.) Why do I do it? I don't want to be anywhere but in my own home on Christmas morning, with the fire lit, a steaming cup of tea in one hand and the PS2 controller in the other. I told my friend Beth what I'd done, and she looked at me, shook her head and sighed a really disappointed sigh. I told her I'm going to try to develop Tourrette's syndrome in order to avoid any more social suicide attempts. It won't be easy, but the next time a strange lady with unfortunate footwear calls me Joan, asks me about my dead grandfather and then invites me to dinner, I'm going to look at her in a slightly deranged, twitchy way, shout, 'Cock off!' And then bark like a dog.

No, on second thoughts, I can't possibly say that. I'm going to have to refrain from using profanities, because old ladies are delicate and I don't want to upset anybody with my filthy mouth. Instead, I shall use some of my most hated words, words that I can't utter without feeling bile rising in my throat. Gusset. Beverage. Docket. Flange. These are the words I'll employ, and at the end of my involuntary outburst, I'll make sure I never get another unwanted invitation, by launching into Triciaspeak, 'At the end of the day twennyfourseven love ya to bits, woof woof, fu***** c***, sorry that just slipped out of my.woof. gusset.'

Job done. Anyone for sherry and mice pies?


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