Red, yellow, green and cream stripes, hanging crumpled and suspect-stained-looking like a clammy, wet, foreign flag. The smell of socks and old bread. Seriously not the best thing to be drying dishes with, and long overdue for a wash.

Improvised Nativity costumes – fabulous shepherd headdress – I wonder what the population of the Middle East make of a generation’s-worth of “My child in Bethlehem” parent postings.

The taste of cinnamon Christmas biscuits sneaked early off the tree, needles prickling the skin on the back of my neck, the tree tottering worryingly as I reach too far. The biscuit resolves to a spicy paste, dissolving on my tongue.

Bread dough rising in the warm cupboard, smelling gloriously of yeast and delight. Damped tea towel swells as if covering a pregnant belly. They say to wear vertical stripes to appear slimmer – take my advice, dear.

Knock back the dough and knead sensuously on a floured surface until it is de-floured. Traces of dough dry onto my palms and encrust behind fingernails, and around them. Washing hands will require a nail brush.

The formed loaves are beautifully rectangular and bevelled and sit low in the tins, biding their time. Soon, oven’s warmth will spur them on to rise up, ripening and strengthening.