This article is taken from the December-January 2025 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Right now we’re offering five issues for just £10.

Am I being unreasonable? Am I? Is it truly unreasonable, irrational — no, wait, I was accused of being hysterical — to expect a Christmas present? To myself. Of some kind. Anything!

I’m not asking for what I want. Which would be, since you ask, a new bigger, nicer house, perma-housekeeper, five-plus long haul trips per annum, nutritionist, facelift, children who make the grades etc.

No. No, I’m not. All I’m asking for is a present to confirm that someone — namely my sodding husband — gives a shit. I don’t even need to like it. That’s how fucking reasonable I am. But no. Latest marital showdown is Will suggesting that we “give ourselves” the gift of a new sofa.

Oh, the irony! A sofa! Of course he wants to give himself a new sofa. He’s the one who’ll get to use it. He’s the one whose arse has worn out the current Soho Home Olivier in Bouclé Sand, on one side only. “But you could relax. You just choose not to!” is his argument.

To which, I say, “Try marshalling three different school schedules, extracurricular clubs and tutoring from the sofa, whilst watching the rugby. Then tell me the only thing stopping me from relaxing is myself.”

What’s the point, anyway? Not like Will even notices the gifts I buy him, despite them all being geared towards his sorely needed self-improvement. So on with the “communal sofa” it is. Next row: quelle couch?

No doubt we’ll have to abide by granny Savage-Gore’s diktat that corner sofas are the c-word (common). But like I said, moot point. I’m basically imprisoned in the utility room, or chained to my phone booking tutors, anyway.

I’m currently ordering my way through a biblical list of AirPods and terrible birthstone jewellery

As for Lyra and Minnie’s requests, I’m currently ordering my way through a biblical list of AirPods, Smartwatches, terrible birthstone jewellery, ugly Kate Spade bags, trainers so expensive I can’t justify them for myself, Dyson hairdryers, grim Brandy Melville hot-pants, status water bottles (only S’well will do) and in Lyra’s case frankly depressing “zero-waste” refillable deodorant and shampoo bars.

Hector has asked for a hoverboard, Nerf blaster and a 3D printer pen (me neither). Completely ignoring my suggestion of a STEM subscription box, or the Osmo Coding Starter Kit (apparently what any high-achieving child wants in 2024. In other words, not Hector).

Which brings us to the elephant in the room: Common Effing Entrance. Despite my hiring a tutor every goddam day of the Autumn term (no way I can get Hector to do a past paper myself), the chance of even an interview at any of the big hitters is looking slim to none.

Put it this way: when I asked Hector how the Dulwich descriptive writing exam had gone, he said: “So easy! I just had to say the picture was of a boat on a lake. How could that take an hour?”

We didn’t even bother with 11-plus, hoping that he might make some unforeseen developmental leap between Year 5 and 8. But no. A baseline level of low achievement prevails. I blame Will’s agricultural DNA.

Yesterday I asked the above tutor — a frankly obnoxious 25-year-old who charges £150 an hour — for her predicted outcome. And she began preaching to me about “not putting too much pressure on kids”. WTF? Isn’t that her actual job? How else are we meant to get him into any school?

All horribly reminiscent of 7-plus, when Hector blew the Westminster interview by talking about poo emojis and then revealing that he thought he was at Winchester. Excellent. Roll on 2025.