The Posh Paw Blog

Christmas morning in Saffron Walden has a particular smell.
A mix of cold air, overturned pine needles, and Margot’s cranberry-orange potpourri that has the same emotional effect as being politely told off. I woke to it like I always do — blinking at the pale winter light and reminding myself that yes, Lulu is back, and Lulu attends church on Christmas morning, whether or not she has recently offended the Almighty by rolling her eyes at a hymn.

Dad was already in the kitchen. He always is. Buttering toast with the quiet concentration of a surgeon and humming “In the Christmas Mood” under his breath.

Mum swept in dressed like an extremely well-prepared guest speaker: coat immaculate, brooch chosen with battlefield precision, shoes polished to a level that suggested she expected God Himself to glance down and take notes.
“Lulu,” she said, adjusting my scarf as if I were eight, “do remember we are representing the family at St. Jude’s.”

Representing. As though the Beaumonts were the House of Lords or something.

We set off into the cold, our breath turning to fog as we stepped through the church gates, where a familiar voice wafted through the entryway:

“Oh good heavens….”

The vicar had spotted us.

He’s a nervous little fellow — pink-cheeked, earnest, and eternally overwhelmed by both the concept of Christmas and, specifically, by my mother. I don’t blame him. Mum treats church like a competitive sport, and he is simply not built for the scrutiny.

But even he wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

Because that’s when Grandma arrived. Imagine, if you can, a woman of seventy-nine wearing enough glitter to cause a minor environmental impact assessment. Not just a dab of sparkle, not a tasteful shimmer.
I’m talking glitter like a tactical deployment — in her hair, on her coat, drifting behind her like the tail of a comet.

She kissed the vicar full on the cheek, leaving a shimmering handprint on his cassock.
“Well hellooo, gorgeous!”
The poor man nearly fainted.

Mum’s inhale was so sharp it could have cut glass.

“Mother,” she whispered, “must you… ?”

Grandma winked. “If the Lord didn’t want me shiny, He’d have made me matte!”

I have never loved a person more in my entire life

Inside, the service tried its best to remain holy. The organ wheezed out a slightly alarmed version of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” The vicar avoided eye contact with Grandma, who kept blowing glitter off her gloves and accidentally sending it drifting across the pews, landing on unsuspecting parishioners who immediately began to look festive against their will.

Mum muttered, “This is a house of worship, Mother,” and dabbed at the glitter settling on her handbag like she was swatting locusts.

Meanwhile, Dad leaned toward me, eyes twinkling.
“It’s settling on the nativity scene, Lulu. I think the lamb is sparkling.”
The lamb was sparkling. And, honestly, improved.

Grandma sang every hymn as though auditioning for the role of “Eccentric Relative #1” in a BBC Christmas Special. At one point, she squeezed my hand and whispered, “If you ever marry in this church, darling, let me coordinate. I do a marvellous glitter toss.”

I whispered back, “Mum would spontaneously combust.”
And Grandma said, “Yes, isn’t it delicious?”

When the service ended, the vicar approached us with the same expression a man might wear when defusing a bomb.

“Mrs Beaumont… Miss Beaumont… Mrs Beaumont Senior…”
He paused, staring at Grandma, whose lipstick had migrated northward in the excitement.
“Might I ask — purely from a housekeeping standpoint — if the glitter is… biodegradable?”

“No idea,” she said brightly. “I bought it in 1987.”

The colour drained from him.

We walked home in a kind of triumphant chaos — Mum mortified, Dad amused, Grandma trailing sparkle into the frosty morning air like a festive delinquent. And me? I felt… grounded.
Like all the contradictions of my upbringing — the order, the warmth, the mischief — made perfect sense when placed in one room together.

That’s the thing about returning home.
You don’t just see where you come from.
You see the forces that shaped you — the polish, the heart, the glitter — and you realize that you are, and always have been, a lovely mess of all three.

And that was Christmas Day last year.
Heaven help the vicar.

Merry Christmas,
Luce 💋