Unless, of course, you're Alfred Lord Tennyson, in which case:
With trembling fingers did we weave
The holly round the Chrismas hearth;
A rainy cloud possess'd the earth,
And sadly fell our Christmas-eve.
At our old pastimes in the hall
We gambol'd, making vain pretence
Of gladness, with an awful sense
Of one mute Shadow watching all.
We paused: the winds were in the beech:
We heard them sweep the winter land;
And in a circle hand-in-hand
Sat silent, looking each at each.
So whatever happens this Christmas - if the tree falls down and the turkey explodes and the bread sauce congeals on the kitchen floor -just remember it could be worse. You could have Tennyson with you.
Let's play charades.