Boxing week, that blissful period when nothing happens, is the real gift of Christmas | Jessica Furseth

Twixmas, Chrimbo limbo or, in Norway, romjul (space Christmas): call it what you will, I’ll be mainly chilling

Maybe it starts the moment you hear Wham!’s Last Christmas in the shops, or perhaps it’s the day you put up your tree. For me, Christmas starts in earnest on Boxing Day. Specifically, around the time when I’m digging through a fridge stuffed with leftovers to make myself a lunch plate, which I’ll eat in front of the TV – me under a blanket, the plate balanced on my chest – with a box of Cadbury’s Roses within easy reach.

This is the true spirit of Christmas: that shapeless week of After Eights, tawny port and old films – the only time of year when we can legitimately forget what day it is.

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