The Posh Paw Blog

Boxing Day at the Beaumont house follows a schedule older than some of the furniture.
At precisely 11:00 AM, the doorbell rings — not 10:59, not 11:01 — because Frank Jenkins has never been early or late to anything in his life except his own wedding (which, by the way, was Mum’s favorite story to retell when she wanted to make a point about responsibility).

Dad brightens like a lantern the moment he hears the bell.

“Right on time,” he says, as if narrating the Queen’s arrival.

Mum lets out the yearly sigh — half annoyance, half fondness she’d never admit to. “Honestly, I don’t know why grown men insist on exchanging presents like schoolboys…”

But even she softens a little when Dad opens the door.

Frank stands there in his enormous coat, smelling faintly of cold air, pipe tobacco (even though he hasn’t smoked since ’93), and the kind of aftershave men buy in duty-free. His gift is always wrapped the same way — too much tape, not enough paper, corners sticking out like elbows.

“Come here, girl!” he booms when he sees me, pulling me into one of those hugs that shakes the dust off your ribs.

This is the part I love most — not the gift exchange, not the jokes, not even the brandy that appears before noon — but the way Frank transforms the room simply by walking into it. He doesn’t match anything in Mum’s carefully curated décor. He’s a splash of primary color in her watercolor world. And yet somehow… he belongs.

He always has.

Because here’s the truth no one outside this house knows:

Frank was the one who taught me to dance.

Not officially, not formally — but properly.
It was the summer I turned fourteen. I was bored, lanky, restless, and convinced the world was happening everywhere except Saffron Walden. Dad and Frank were in the garden, listening to Glenn Miller and pretending to tidy the shed while actually drinking warm beer from mismatched mugs.

I drifted out, curious, and Frank — without even asking — held out a hand.

“Come on, Lulu. Ever danced a swing-out?”

I hadn’t.
But that didn’t matter.

In ten minutes, I’d gone from tripping over my own feet to catching the rhythm like it had been waiting for me. Frank didn’t teach with technique or terminology. He taught the way Lindy was meant to be taught — by feel, by pulse, by the certainty that joy is more important than precision.

Dad watched us with that soft, surprised smile of his — the one he gets when something reminds him of his own youth. And from that day on, dancing was mine.

Which is why every Boxing Day, when Frank eventually asks:

“Lulu, fancy a swing?”

…I always say yes.

Mum’s horrified expression is always a bonus.

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Dad puts on a record — usually something from the forties with enough brass to rattle the windowpanes — and the living room becomes a tiny ballroom of chaos and charm. The chairs get pushed back. The rug becomes a dance floor. The good lampshade is suddenly in mortal danger.

Frank takes my hand and we begin with the basics he taught me decades ago:
rock-step, triple-step, triple-step.

He leads big — enthusiastic, joyful, full of momentum.
His frame is solid, his footwork surprisingly precise. For a man who moves like a friendly bear, he has impeccable timing.

And then there’s our little secret.

Frank knows how to follow.
Properly. Fluidly. Without ego.

And I — well, I can lead. Cleanly enough to guide a six-foot man through a swing-out without knocking over Mum’s crystal bowls.

So halfway through the song, he gives my fingers a little squeeze — our signal — and the lead shifts. It’s seamless, like a baton pass in a relay. Suddenly I’m steering, and Frank relaxes into the follow with a grin that makes him look twenty years younger.

Most dancers never get to feel this.
Most people never understand how freeing it is to swap roles mid-song — to be the anchor one moment and the sail the next. But with Frank, the roles melt away, and all that’s left is rhythm. Connection. Pure human joy.

Dad watches with pride so obvious it almost embarrasses him.
Mum… clutches the arm of the sofa like she’s witnessing a controlled demolition.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” she mutters. “Frank, do be careful — that’s my best table!”

“Margot,”Frank beams, pivoting under my arm with surprising grace, “your best table survived ’89. It’ll live.”

Mum sighs, because usually everyone calls her Marge so whenever anyone says Margot, it’s like her parents telling her to behave all over.

And then he spins — properly spins — nearly knocking a cushion off the settee.

I laugh so hard I can’t breathe.
Dad joins in, wiping his glasses because they’ve fogged.

And for one perfect moment, the Beaumont living room becomes the Savoy Ballroom — threadbare carpet, wobbly lampshade, and all.

When the song ends, Frank bows extravagantly.
Mum applauds despite herself.
Dad claps Frank on the back like they’ve just won something.

Suddenly Frank turns to me and says,
“You really are your dad’s pride and joy – he used to talk about you non-stop at work, Lulu. Drove us all mad at the Post office . ‘My girl did this, my girl did that.’ He was unbearable.”

This of course hit me in the chest,
It’s funny – it’s not that Dad doesn’t show he cares for me, he does, in his own quirky ways. It’s just – I didn’t know he was that proud of me.

And then as we end the dance and Frank gets to what he really has come for, the Gift Exchange Tradition – he thrusts a gift bag into my arms.

“For you. Don’t tell your mother.”
He always says this, even though it’s for Dad and even though Mum has known about this Boxing Day Gift Exchange for thirty-seven years.

When Dad appears behind me, Frank straightens like a soldier and salutes with two fingers. “Patrick, my man.”

“Frank,” Dad says — and the warmth in his voice is different from the warmth he reserves for Mum and me. This one is old, trodden, comfortable. The warmth of someone who once got drunk with you at nineteen and knows exactly who you were before taxes, mortgages, and adulthood had a say.

They clap each other on the back with far more force than necessary, and Mum winces.

I hand over Frank’s Boxing Day gift to Dad (wrapped in newspaper), and Dad gives his to Frank (wrapped, of course, in an actual crisp brown paper parcel tied with twine, because Dad takes presentation very seriously unless Mum is involved).

Dad sets aside the gifts, reaches for the record player, and without a flicker of apology to his wife, says,
“Frank, same as always?”

“You know it,” Frank grins.

The crackle begins.
The needle drops.
A warm brass swell fills the room — Glenn Miller, naturally.

Mum’s hand flies to her forehead.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, not this again— Frank, would it kill you to request Bing Crosby like a normal person?”

Frank winks at her.
“Marge, darling, if I ever start acting normal, you’ll have to bury me.”

Dad’s shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.
I bite my lip to hide mine.

And that, Darling, concludes why Boxing Day at the Beaumont house — with Frank booming through the doorway, Mum pretending to faint like an understudy in a village panto, and Dad quietly glowing with pride — will always be more than just laughter and nostalgia.

For me, it is a return to origin.
A recalibration.
A reminder of the spark that built the dancer I became — the woman who leads when needed, follows when it matters, adapts, invites, transforms.
The Luce you know today didn’t spring out of thin air; she was shaped here, in this slightly lopsided living room, by these beautifully ridiculous people, and especially by one man in an oversized coat who once held out his hand and said, “Come on, Lulu. Ever danced a swing-out?”

I wouldn’t be a dancer if it wasn’t for Frank.
And I wouldn’t be myself without this place.

Tomorrow I head back to London — back to trains, deadlines, colour-coded calendars, and the rhythm of daily life that I adore in an entirely different way. But tonight, before I pack my suitcase with the precision of a military operation (you’d be proud, Mum), I want to leave you with this:

I hope your time here in Saffron Walden — wandering its memories with me, meeting my gloriously mismatched family, surviving Grandma’s glitter, and witnessing Frank’s annual attempt to turn our living room into the Savoy Ballroom — has added a little extra brightness to your Christmas.

It certainly added to mine.

And since I’ll be taking a short break to breathe, reset, and drag myself gracefully (or something close to it) into the new year, I want to take the opportunity to wish all of you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

We’ll reunite on January 12.

Until then, I’ve prepared a special collection of my favorite Daily posts from this past year — a little holiday box of chocolates, if you will. Something lovely to unwrap while I’m away.

Once again, Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year,
Luce ❤️