The Posh Paw Blog

Write about a few of your favorite family traditions.

There are a few things in life that make you feel rooted. You know — things that roll around the same time each year, like clockwork, wearing the same cardigan, smelling faintly of cinnamon and old photo albums.

At ours, it begins with the toast. No, not the one you eat. The kind that’s raised. Champagne flutes on Christmas Eve — we never wait for Christmas Day. Mum insists it’s continental. Dad insists it’s tradition. I suspect it’s mostly impatience disguised as elegance. Either way, the clink of those glasses is when it all begins.

Then there’s The Walk.

Every year — rain, shine, or legendary family row — someone shouts “Boots on!” and we take to the streets like a poorly-organised protest group.

And of course, the grand finale: The Game.

It’s never the same game. Charades, Pictionary, that disastrous attempt at Monopoly where Uncle Frank declared bankruptcy and vendetta in the same breath. But the tradition is less about the game itself and more about the people who play it. Mum, pretending not to cheat. Dad, claiming moral victory even when he loses. Me, sipping tea and watching it unfold like theatre. Glorious, ridiculous, heart-soaked theatre.

Even now, living in London, I carry those traditions like lucky charms in my pocket. And when I do return to Saffron for the holidays, and I hear Dad mutter “Boots on…” from behind the paper, I know I’m home.

Some traditions are like that.

They don’t just remind you where you came from — they remind you who you still are

Stay fabulous,
Luce 💋