Saturday Morning With Jack Tame

As a little kid, I always slept terribly on Christmas eve.  I’d try and go to bed early. I’d tell myself that the sooner I went to sleep, the sooner I’d wake on Christmas morning. But sure as anything I’d be up all night, listening for any sound of activity on the roof. Together with my three little brothers and sisters, we’d be desperate for mum and dad to throw open our bedroom doors at first light, and we’d scramble down to our spindly-and-slightly-off-centred Christmas tree to see if Dad’s old football socks had been attended to by Santa.  I suspect this Christmas eve will be another poor sleep. Not because I’ll be excitedly listening for the sound of shuffling reindeer on corrugated iron, but because it’s my first Christmas morning with our ten-month-old son. We’re taking both our boys to their cousins’ place. Five kids. Average age: four-and-a-half. Our eldest is already fizzing. Our baby will have absolutely no idea what’s going on but will sure as anything wake up a minimum of three times in