Page 39 of Last Christmas in London

‘I was going to stick to the pun theme,’ Simon suggested. ‘Something like Michael Snow or Cold Porter.’

‘Snowen Wilson?’ I recommended.

‘Meltin’ John,’ Simon suggested with a grin so contagious I almost fell over, trying to stop myself snorting.

I clutched my ribs, gasping for air as my laughter took over. ‘Stop it! I can’t breathe.’

Simon covered the snowman’s hat dramatically, a mischievous glint in his eye. ‘Ssh! You’ll upset Snowprah Winfrey. They’ve never breathed, you know.’

I threw one of the baubles from the props table at Simon as Josh pronounced his tree was ‘Perfect!’ And it was. Even with cheap Amazon-buy props, Josh had managed to make our Christmas tree look like something out of a John Lewis catalogue.

‘Last bit! Go, go, go!’ Josh urged, snapping us back into the race. It looked like we were only behind one team, we still had the opportunity to win this.

‘Go!’ I instructed, grabbing my slightly dented Christmas pudding and racing for the finish. We had to pass through waiting strangers who had silly string at the ready as crowds cheered on.

‘Come on, Simon!’

‘Go on, my son!’ I heard the recognisable sounds of Simon’s fellow buskers, all harmonising in their supportive cheer. Turning over my shoulder, I saw Simon give them a swift middle finger before grinning like a mischievous schoolboy as he surged ahead.

‘£300!’ I shouted to him, catching up just as we neared the final inflatables.

‘I’ll forget you owe me anything if we win this,’ Simon called back, practically charging ahead, only a step behind Josh, who was sprinting as if the finish line led to an early Boxing Day sale in Zara.

‘Come on, Megan,’ I said, grabbing her hand as she panted over the last inflatable. ‘We’ve got this.’

‘Woo!’ Megan cheered lazily, raising her pudding above her head in a mock Chariots of Fire finish.

Josh and Simon both beat us to the red ribbon but we finally made it. And collapsed in a heap of Christmas cheer and exhaustion.

‘That was bloody hard work,’ Megan said, sitting up with her Christmas pudding – still perfect – in her lap.

Simon rested his hand against a scaffolding pole that was holding up the finish-line sign. ‘I definitely got my steps in,’ he said, his eyes twinkling. Josh was correcting his costume, ensuring his bald cap was perfectly lined up and none of his muscles had gone in the opposite direction from his body.

‘Well done, team,’ he said matter-of-factly, like a manager at the end of a forced team-building exercise.

‘That was hilarious,’ I added for good measure, my ribs still twingeing with a stitch brought on by laughter.

‘Congratulations, all!’ a race marshal said, coming up to move us away from the finish line as another group approached. ‘You’ve made it to the final race.’

‘Who beat us?’ Josh asked, immediately competitive again.

‘The Parumpapumpums were first,’ the marshal said with a tiny amount of sympathy.

‘The humbuggers,’ Josh said, and I saw the race marshal flush in surprise.

‘There’s still the Grand Final to go,’ he said, and I gently pulled his trouser leg from where I sat on the floor, so he turned to look at me.

‘And what does the Grand Final entail?’ I asked.

‘Exactly the same again, except instead of the tree and snowman, you just need to deliver a present to Santa.’

‘But still carrying a Christmas pudding, I presume?’ Simon asked calmly.

‘Yes, indeed. Wouldn’t be the Great Christmas Pudding Race without one.’ The marshal smiled and moved away to the next group to offer commiserations.

‘Right, this is it, team.’ Josh moved in, pulling Megan over by her padded shoulder. ‘The finale, our curtain call, the big one.’

‘Josh,’ I said, still sitting on the floor beneath this pep-talk huddle. ‘It’s just a bit of fun.’