I know why that miserable 'Christmas' pile of nihilism on a plate bothers some fraus.
It's the meanspirited half effort made by the ex mother in law on the day you were informed that you had to go there rather than have your own Christmas 'Because visiting family is what middleclass families do'.
You aren't allowed to give the kids all their presents to wake up with, as it's not the done thing, so they've had three each. You've been told that because you'll be eating Dinner soon, you're not to let them have anything more than toast or a bowl of cereal at 8.30am, rather than making a proper Christmas Breakfast accompanied by a Bucks Fizz or boozy coffee as he's going to be driving, so you aren't allowed either. 11.30am comes and you dutifully wrangle children into acceptable clothing when they just want to play with toys and watch Christmas movies. You drive in silence to deepest Suburbia, past houses full of giggling children and cycling lessons in the streets and parks.
Once you arrive, you notice just how little has been decorated. There's a thirty year old and dusty like a long dead Aunt decoration on the inside porch door - no putting a wreath on the outside, as somebody said once that wreath mean 'All Welcome' and nobody wants that. The Christmas Tree lights are off 'because it's not Christmas Eve any more'. It's either deathly silent or the father in law is going through his 27 CD collection of Christmas carols as performed by a synthesizer orchestra from the early 70s as per A Clockwork Orange . The dogs have been shut out in the garden and the washing still stands on an airer in the conservatory.
Three hours later, the other sibling and spouse turn up. MIL now goes into firefighting mode as there are SIX people in the house. Dinner is nearly ready, apparently, not that you can smell anything. The children are allocated a plastic table in the conservatory next to the FIL's Y fronts in case they giggle. You assemble hopefully, thinking that it can't really all be ready from the two saucepans you've seen boiling for the last hour in the kitchen. You've offered to help, but this has been turned down.
And then the plates arrive. You have one small slice of white/grey meat, skin removed. There are two pieces of slightly greasy, yellowish potato about the size of a Jersey Royal. Three strips of carrot. A piece of greying broccoli in its own puddle of cold cooking water. And about a tablespoon of chicken Oxo. That's it. You're sitting there in silence, feeling vaguely jealous of the dogs in the garden who have been given their own Turkey leg each as part of their raw feeding regime. The kids come back from the pants drying area to see where the rest of the food is. There is no more food; she's already slightly miffed that they expected more than one potato each. MIL declares that she is simply full to the brim and won't eat again today as everybody has had so much to eat already as she picks up the plates and goes to wash up, refusing your offer to help/escape from the silence, punctuated by a soundtrack you associate with beating somebody to death with a giant china phallus.
Then it's Present Time. You all have to sit down and take turns in opening the things you never wanted, including the 18 months out of date biscuits that FIL retrieved from a skip next door to his workplace. This goes on for so long that it's getting dark. But you're obliged to stay until after even the smaller shops have closed. The TV never goes on. Eventually, you leave after being offered a tablespoon of Christmas Pudding. There is no ice cream or anything the kids would have liked. Even a single cup of tea is accompanied by the instruction to use the secondhand teabag on the side as 'You can get two cups of tea from a teabag, you know'.
You take your bottle of Ā£2 bubblebath, regifted diary and packet of biros from the Pound Shop (because middleclass families 'don't waste money on fancy presents'), get home and go back to a home that would have been warm, bright and comfortable. The food would have been joyful and filled with colour and flavour, the kids would have played and relaxed and eaten and watched a film cuddled up on the sofa in their new pyjamas whilst you finished the evening with the warm and fuzzy glow of a couple of drinks. And you think 'I am never, ever doing that again'.