The Perfect Christmas Lunch

We have survived church.Husband sprints down the road making muffled excuses about having to "save the turkey", leaving me to whisk the Aged Ps out of the door before they can get the vicar in a corner and tell him what Richard Dawkins would have to say about his sermon.
Small Boy has almost reached the point of spontaneous combustion by this point.
"CAN WE OPEN OUR PRESENTS THE MINUTE WE GET IN?" he hollers, bouncing up and down in the middle of the pavement in front of me.
"You take them into the sitting room while Dad and I put the veg on for lunch and then we will open them, I promise," I mollify him.
"I hope the turkey will be done on time," says Mother.
"I'm sure it will be," I say.
"Did you know that it takes until you are 47 to perfect cooking Christmas lunch?" says Mother. "You've still got six years to go - ha!" she adds.
Small Boy rushes in to get the presents from under the tree and has them organised into separate piles for each person before I have had time to take my coat off.
"What's this one?" he asks, running up to me with a small packet which appears to be addressed to Mother - from Mother.
"Er, I don't know. Must be a mistake," I say.
"No, it's not a mistake," Mother says. "That present is for me."
"But it also says it's from you," says Small Boy.
"Yes, well. I don't get many presents," she says sniffily. "And I bought your mother the same thing in a two for one deal, so I thought I'd keep the free one."
I concentrate my energies on the roast potatoes and leave Small Boy to ponder on the appropriateness of this version of gift-giving.
Dad, meanwhile, has ferretted out a bottle of bubbly and cracked it open with the excuse that he has to "toast my brother in South Africa at this time of day". It is only 11:30, but frankly I am not going to turn down a glass the way I am feeling.
"SO CAN WE OPEN THE PRESENTS YET?" Small Boy yells, dancing around dangerously near a pan of sizzling hot fat.
"Yes, yes," I say, waving him out of the kitchen.
"Is that turkey all right?" Mother asks. "Why don't you let me help? After all, technically I perfected the cooking of Christmas lunch 21 years ago!" She laughs heartily.
Small Boy and Daughter are ripping the wrapping paper off the iPods we have given them. Once opened, there ensues a tedious exchange of texts, which unfortunately I am party to, and which goes something like this:

- Hello. This is me. Is that u?

- Who is this? I cant see ur name.

- u r a loser.

- Not Im not Im kl.

- This is Mum. Please stop texting me while I'm trying to cook.

- Hello. Is that Mum?
- no its not u loser.

- I dont hv a username do u?

- SHUT UP!

Mother quickly gets huffy as she doesn't have an iPhone or iPod so feels she is missing out. "I don't agree with all this technology anyway," she says. "The Kindle's rubbish for a start. I find I can't remember anything I've read on the Kindle! It's as if it wipes my memory the minute I've finished with it. And as for texting . . . " She fishes out her own archaic brick of a mobile. "I mean, it doesn't even work." She begins prodding at the keyboard and swearing. "Take a look at this, can't you?" she says, thrusting it under Dad's nose. "I want to send a text to our other daughter. Seeing as no one here is talking to me." She glares at her grandchildren. "But every time I press send, it doesn't do anything."
Dad frowns, presses a few buttons and says, "You've sent the same text ten times already."
"Well how on earth am I supposed to know that?" Mother says, throwing up her hands in despair.
"Never mind, Mum," I say, downing another glass of bubbly. "Technology is kind of the opposite of Christmas lunch."
"What do you mean?"
"If you haven't perfected it by the time you're 47, you're most unlikely ever to be able to manage it," I say with a grin. "Oh, look at that. The turkey's ready. Lunch anyone? Or would you like to wait another six years, just in case it's not perfect?"