The Home Front - December 2007

Above: The Home Front

Most people choose between turkey and goose but have you heard the one about the TV presenter who tried to buy a tractor for Christmas dinner? I’ve never forgotten the look of bewilderment in the farm machinery shop as I tried to order my festive fare. Sorry, madam. They could supply, fix or completely recondition pretty much any tractor on the market… but no turkeys.

To understand how I ever got into this predicament we need to rewind. I am on my mobile to a friend (and to this day I blame poor reception for the whole sorry affair), having forgotten to order the turkey. For years I had relied on Wilkinson’s, the wonderful butcher in Modbury, but this particular year, knee-deep in wrapping paper and plans for the Spotlight Christmas broadcast, it had completely slipped my mind. So I appealed for help to a friend who suggested I try Erme Valley. Or at least that’s what I thought she said.

Fantastic, I am thinking. I’d driven past the place dozens of times. Didn’t even realise it was a butchers. A quick detour on the way home and I am there. Funny sort of butcher. No visible sign of any meat. Perhaps it’s out the back. Probably some ridiculous new European hygiene regulation.

I cannot begin to describe the look of puzzlement on the person from whom I try to order a 16lb turkey. "Tractors. We deal with tractors, madam." Bright-red and back on the mobile to my friend.

"Aune Valley not Erme Valley!" Her tone is of disbelief. Different place entirely – and another wonderful butcher that I’m very happy to recommend, incidentally.

Tractors aside, I am in the camp which completely loves everything about Christmas and positively refuse to tolerate any humbugging.

OK, so it can all get a bit stressful, especially in those overwrought days when I was juggling busy job and busy family, but I have always revelled in the creation (and repetition) of the little family traditions that make Christmas unique to each household.

In ours, there are always silver-sprayed branches in a vase in the kitchen window from which I hang all the little decorations the children made way back in nursery school. The tree always gets the same slot by the bay window in the sitting room, and on the grounds that size really does matter, its selection inevitably leads to much mickey-taking over what is affectionately known as the Year of the Twig – the Christmas my husband was forced to return and exchange the tree on the grounds that it was more twig than tree!

This is also a time of year when I feel especially lucky to live in the Westcountry, which is just one big, glorious festive film set, causing an annual dilemma during my years on Spotlight over where to locate the Christmas programme. We were so spoilt for choice and every year, of course, was in the end special in its own way, but I’ve never forgotten the fun we had in Dartmouth.

I was six months pregnant at the time, and until that point I had managed to hide it quite well in the studio by lowering the chair to conceal my growing girth. But there was nowhere to hide on the Quay at Dartmouth so there I stood, resplendent and enormous in my Christmas tent coat enjoying the surprise on everyone’s faces as I walked about, bump several feet ahead of me.

Then, in the middle of the broadcast, someone in the crowd who had clearly partaken of just a little bit too much Christmas spirit, started to lunge ominously towards me as I was delivering a piece to camera. I have never seen our marvellous floor manager move so fast, practically rugby tackling the interloper to the ground off-camera. Funniest thing I had seen in years. How I delivered my lines without cracking up I have no idea.

These days, of course, I have the luxury of having more time to get ready for Christmas which, in theory at least, means for a calmer run-up, lots of yummy festive cooking and no excuses over ordering that turkey.

So from me, here’s wishing you all a very happy and delicious Devon Christmas (more gravy with your tractor?) and a wonderful New Year.