DEAR Jasminda,

I HAVE 45 people coming to my place for Christmas.

Parents, cousins, aunts and uncles, and three rescue dogs are descending on our doorstep. I’m stressed about how I’m going to feed everyone and worried some will want to stay overnight.

I don’t have any extra room. Help!

Katie M.

Dear Katie,

I can tell, without even meeting you, that you are a reliable soul, a great host, and you probably live on the coast within walking distance to a beach.

Chances are you also have a well-stocked bar and an inground pool.

Who wouldn’t want to come and spend Christmas Day with you, and possibly extend the stay, maybe stretching it out until New Years’ Eve, at which point it would be silly to leave because of the traffic.

No, far better for your extended family to start packing up around the 5th of January so they can go back to work on the 6th.

And, even though you will protest, with the modern version of, ‘there’s no room at the inn,’ they will not heed you, nay, because your home is like a little Christmas miracle.

Your guests may try to sweeten the deal by bringing you gifts as useless as gold, frankincense and myrrh (a tropical punch reed diffuser that makes your sinuses play up and some silver-plated cubic zirconia hoop earrings that bring out a rash), but don’t be fooled.

They know the game, and they are playing it to their advantage.

And there you’ll be, passing around beetroot dip and Artisan biscuits and tripping over Uncle Roger’s gammy leg that’s stretched out on the pouffe, but you’ll soldier on, or rather glide, in your baby-blue sarong, with the grace and dignity of Mary because you’re a doer, Katie.

You get things done.

On Boxing Day, while your guests alternate between lolling on a blow-up flamingo, sunning on the sun lounges, having 30-minute showers (can I have another towel, Katie?) or giving you plaintive ‘what’s for brunch?’ looks, you’ll be at Aldi stocking up on gluten-free cereal (Uncle Roger’s new girlfriend can’t tolerate Weetbix, but doesn’t mind a long-neck or two), more cheese and crackers (cousin Clara has built up quite an appetite doing laps) and another Christmas ham (Limos, the rescue Rottweiler named after the Greek god of hunger took off with the last one).

I feel you’ll have to just soldier on with this Christmas.

You’ve made your bed (and everyone else’s) and now you (and they) will lie in them (including Limos, whose PTSD has been miraculously soothed by your 1000-thread count sage sheets (who knew?).

Next Christmas, may I suggest a trip away (somewhere they can’t find you).

And make sure you AirBnB your house just in case they are tempted to turn up and housesit.

Carpe diem,
Jasminda.