Every family has its little foibles. But it's not until you gather everyone together at Christmas that you realise just how stark staring mad your own brood is.

After clearing away the half-eaten mince pie, the half-slurped milk and the half crunched reindeer nuts (chick peas that were well past their sell-by date), we always rip into our pressies, or rather the five year old rips into them for us, before packing up the car and heading off to my parents across the great divide in West Yorkshire.

This sounds simple, but it takes hours. I actually had to poke my lad awake at 7am this year so we could make it to grandma's by lunchtime.

Eventually, after two hours of present opening (two hours!), several rounds of toast, numerous chocolate coins and more than a smattering of swearing as we tried to cram an overnight bag, yet more presents, a buggy, travel cot, play nest (don't ask), coats, wellies, night lights and nappies into a filthy Ford Escort, we managed to chug along the A64 to Leeds.

Grandma, who was full of cold and sounded unnervingly like Marge Simpson, had the festivities on a very tight schedule. In fact, I'm sure I saw her tick our names off on one of her many lists as we arrived, undoubtedly accompanied by a large red L to signify that we were late as usual.

She admitted she had cooked the turkey and laid the table on Christmas Eve (tick, tick). But my suggestion that we actually celebrate Christmas on the 24th next year to save time went down like a lead balloon (much like last year's Christmas pudding, but that's another story).

As we opened yet more presents, granddad, who had shocked us all once by swapping his usual uniform of jeans and a Leeds United T-shirt for smart trousers and a proper shirt - with buttons and everything - shocked us again by discussing in great detail how a particularly spicy curry he had enjoyed on the 23rd was still wreaking havoc with his "Johnny Giles".

It goes without saying that we politely but firmly refused the Brazil nuts he was proffering, much in the same way that we passed on the cranberry sauce when grandma decided to spice up the dinner-table conversation with talk of murder and leaking bodily fluids.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Before lunch, my aunt, uncle and cousin, a strapping 16 year old who spent most of the day carrying my son around the house by his ankles, much to the five year old's delight, re-enacted the entire Peter Kay video they had seen the previous night. The only difference being they couldn't remember any of the punchlines. Not one.

Then, of course, we come to Grandma Madge, the Queen Mum of our frighteningly functional family. Like Her Maj in her prime, our Madge likes a tipple or two, is game for a giggle and is not overly keen on foreigners (for "foreigners" read "anyone who doesn't come from Lower Wortley, including the hoity-toits from Upper Wortley").

She is the crown jewel of our family, but that doesn't mean she's flawless. Grandma Madge is glorious, but she squeaks like a rusty old gate in a hurricane.

After smoking God knows how many cigarettes over God knows how many years (no one is sure how old she is, and she's not telling), her lungs have developed a loud, grating sque-e-e-eak that makes a guest appearance every winter. The daft thing is that it takes us all by surprise every year.

So this Christmas we spent the entire day running round the house looking for squealing babies and wailing cats and retuning radios to get rid of ear-wrenching interference. All of which turned out to be Madge and her amazing musical organs.

Updated: 09:33 Monday, December 29, 2003