Why Mummy Drinks: The Sunday Times Number One Bestselling Author

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Ellen likes wine, shoes and reminiscing about times in her life that involved Fun and Frolics rather than refereeing fights over who had the remote first. I am sure that any parent will recognise themselves or their children in the book though I'd just like to point out here that I definitely did not have the copious amounts of wine and gin which Mummy drinks. However, amid the ruin of her plans, Mummy clings to the hope of discovering a glimmer of joy somewhere under the mistletoe.

Which meant more often than not that they came to us, for the Christmas Vision and the unopened pickled beetroot. Oh my God, Mother, it’s only bloody Verbier, will you stop saying “Abroad” like a xenophobic Nancy Mitford character? What if he’s a people trafficker, what if there is no ski chalet and he’s just luring you onto a plane and he’ll take your passport and sell you into white slavery? She claimed that was not my finest parenting hour, but I pointed out that really, it was a very easy mistake to make, they were right next to each other, but Jane insisted that knowing what country your teenager is visiting is really the very minimum you should expect from a parent.I’d steal a glance at the children, spellbound by the old story, the firelight flickering on their dear faces that I’d so missed and realise that we were making the happiest of memories together to sustain us through darker days in the years ahead. Can Mummy find her silver lining after all and bring the whole family together for one moment of harmony, so they can finally proclaim ‘Verily You Are the Queen of Christmas’?

And you might enjoy a spot of festive crafting with me,’ I retorted, trying to suppress the memories of that dreadful salt-dough night, because obviously I couldn’t back down now.We like to tackle all sorts of literature, and follow it up with discussions of our likes and dislikes.

In the book Mummy is constantly thwarted in her efforts to have well turned out, well rounded children who she has delightful little chats with and goes on lovely walks in the countryside with.

My own 'precious moppets' are now well past the age of Peter and Jane so I no longer have the morning rush of getting them ready for school, gently 'encouraging' them to find the clothes they say are nowhere to be found but are actually exactly where they left them and finding a crushed up note in the bottom of the bag advising that it is National Book Day and can they come dressed as an animal character from a book. Poor me, all by myself, on my own beside the fire when I should have been picking the perfect festive extracts from A Christmas Carol. And so every December I’d once again be belting out ‘Hark the Herald Angels’ and sobbing over ‘Silent Night’ while trying to cope with everyone else’s agendas, ideas, expectations, traditions, issues, anxieties, allergies or intolerances (unfortunately both food- and race related in the case of my ghastly stepfather Geoffrey), and flinging mistletoe and holly around with wild abandon.