CAROLS are playing softly, their melodies floating into the kitchen where Miranda is standing at the hob, gently stirring mulled wine. From the bubbling pot, the smell of cinnamon and clove wafts thro

CHRISTMAS 1962. Bitterly cold. Elvis was crooning on my dad’s wind-up radio. I was nine. Mum was cleaning rich folks’ houses right up to Christmas Eve because Dad was out of work. But he had a plan. M

AS you know, Anne and I are early bedders, but there is one night in the year Anne insists we stay up till midnight. That, as you can guess, is New Year’s Eve. On the stroke of midnight Anne pours out

WHEN I was little, your gran used to tell me something interesting,” I say. “She said that Boxing Day was when everybody put their Christmas tree and decorations back into their boxes, and it was all

H&H’s hunting editor Catherine Austen shares a somewhat predictable remedy for all of your Christmas woes

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