Except for my back which is killing me because I was leaning over from the waist for three hours solid. And my knees have a strange aztec design now ingrained on them, maybe for life, from kneeling on our hugely uncomfortable sisal flooring for the same amount of time. And my nails are all torn from trying to rip sellotape from a dispenser which didn’t want to dispense.

But the pressies are now all wrapped, done, dusted and sorted into huge, ugly carrrier bags which are so damn heavy that I think I might have misplaced something. Not a gift. Something internal.

Meanwhile, downstairs, my girls, who obviously come from another planet, or who were swapped with someone else’s baby at birth (surely not both of them?) were calmly and creatively making homemade gifts for the whole family. They then wrapped and stacked their delights into beautiful, vintage-style packages which they had acquired on a shopping trip to a neighbouring town a few weeks ago. It took them all afternoon, preparing, assembling, then tidying up. All of this was done in a harmonious sisterly mode whilst listening to loud music in the kitchen.

Whose kids are these? They have certainly never seen their mother behaving in such a festive fashion or their father ever even entertain such a seasonal thought.

But what they have done is amazing. Astonishingly simple, yet highly effective. And, more importantly, each hand-crafted gift holds a little part of them within it. And that has so much more value than a little present bought from the shops.

So even if my back and my knees are crying, and my nails tearing up, my heart is humming a little tune. The notes are full of love and pride and wonder at how we have been lucky enough to have been offered the gift of being the parents of these extraordinary young women. Nothing else could make me happier.

Merry Christmas to them and to you all.