The Twelve Posts of Christmas 2025 is my festive wander through memories, traditions, mishaps, and moments — from childhood Christmases of the 60s and 70s to the quirks of celebrating today. Think nostalgia sprinkled with humour, a pinch of honesty, and the occasional whiff of Brussels sprouts.
Let’s unwrap the season, one story at a time.
It’s the mid-1970s, the day before Christmas Eve. It’s a typical British winter scene, as I’m trudging through a thin mist that we hope will deliver snow, but more likely it will rain. I’m on my way to the house of the family who was looking after my dog Lisa—a mischievous animal, with a temperament that suggested she was a law unto herself.
As soon as I stepped inside the front room, I was hit by it.
A smell.
Not a strong one, but the kind that creeps up on you — a sort of lingering, unidentifiable pong that is noticeable and doesn’t go away.
Naturally, my first thought was Lisa.
She was sitting in the corner, looking vaguely guilty in that classic canine way. Her ears were slightly down, as was her head, her eyes avoiding mine. If she were a human, her posture would say, “I’d like to speak to my solicitor.”
It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d left an aromatic surprise, but she had been trained to go outside.
Something felt… off.
Ray, my host, shuffled into the room, already looking mildly stressed by the Christmas festivities. Mind you, to be fair, he looked like that most of the time. I decided to ask quietly, bracing myself for bad news.
“What’s that smell? I hope it’s not my dog. She has been trained.”
Lisa knew we were talking about her. She looked towards me, her eyes wide as if to say, “Don’t drag me into this.”
“Oh, that?” Ray said, waving a hand. “That’s just Grandad. He’s getting on a bit.” He gave a knowing laugh. “It’s the same every Christmas now. I don’t think he can help himself.”
I turned to look at Alfred, sitting in his armchair like part of the furniture, the glow of the television reflecting off his glasses. The Sporting Life was spread out in front of him, as he watched the racing from Kempton Park with the concentration of a man that had money at stake on the outcome.
“I heard that,” Alfred said suddenly, glancing at me over the paper. “And I’m not bothered. Don’t you worry.” He gave me a smile, a somewhat surprisingly cheery one, before returning to cheer on whichever horse he’d put his money on.
“He can’t hear you,” Ray muttered. “Deaf as a post. He’s at that age where… well, you know.” He lowered his voice. “We just make sure we don’t give him any Brussels sprouts on Christmas or Boxing Day. If he asks, we tell him they’ve been cut up into tiny pieces.”
“I’m not a child!” Alfred protested without missing a beat. “I like my sprouts.”
“You said he was deaf,” I whispered to Ray.
“He is,” Ray whispered back. “Except when he isn’t. He hears what he wants to hear. Crafty old devil. And if there’s trouble, he’ll blame the dog. He blames my two dogs all the time.”
“It’s the dog,” Alfred announced innocently, eyes still fixed on the racing.
Poor Lisa looked around as if she was on trial for something she hadn’t done, falsely accused. She slowly stood up, gave me a look that translated roughly to “I’m going now,” and walked out of the room.
“If only dogs could talk,” I said, watching her tail disappear around the door.
I heard a shout from the chair in the corner. Alfred looked dejected, as he tore up his betting slip.
“I knew that horse would lose the moment that I backed it. Only good for dog meat.”
And honestly, on that particular Christmas Eve Eve, I’m not entirely sure, I’d have wanted to hear what Lisa would have said.
More can be found here: Twelve Posts of Christmas
Image by Lesley Negus from Pixabay
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