Valiant dutiful service had been done. Aperitifs, wines, sticky liqueurs or brandies or malts had been bravely conquered. Several days’ worth of food too. (Food decreases in volume at Christmas, it’s a known fact, there’s no other explanation.) Increasingly incomprehensible games had been played; all the expected, and some unexpected, songs had been sung, or at least recited, through ever-broadening grins; conversations, arguments, discussions had blurred into each other, as they do. Unwanted brandies and Baileys were sitting around, looking forlorn.
Somebody said: “Well…” Alan opened a baleful eye and cast it around the room. “Nobody goes to bed until I do!” Then he started snoring.