Christmas...

There was always war waged between the kids and the adults during Christmas gatherings at my Grandparent’s house. Not the usual wars such as arguing over the last drumstick, or over who left the stickle bricks on the floor for Granddad to tread on. This battle was actually known as the war of the chairs.
The first members of the family to arrive at the house would all settle down along the sofas that formed a square around the middle of the room where the food table had been set. Any kids would take up the remaining seats or perch upon an available lap. As the doorbell rang, more uncles, aunts and cousins would filter though, meaning that all the children would begin to be booted off the sofas and down onto the floor.
We were left to sit on cat hair and crumbs of dropped crisps, that of which the youngest would usually go around and eat anyway. The house would eventually get so packed out that all of the kids had to move into the room next-door where our uncle would watch us. Not that he wanted to, he just couldn’t get his wheelchair past us all and no one could manage squash in and lend a hand.
It was bedlam in that room: screaming, arguments, fistfights and bits of Barbie and Buzz Lightyear scattered everywhere. After the first hour or so, we would begin to devise plans on how to escape and get back to the comfy chairs and jelly babies that weren’t stale or already chewed. After plotting our exits, we would sneak out in twos, crawling under tangles of legs and wheels, just waiting for someone to stand up so we could slide into their place, the theme tune to The Great Escape ironically blaring from the TV in the background. It never really worked though, especially if you did it to the wrong person. I remember two of us slipping into the chair of crazy Aunt Susan once, to which she responded by hitting us in the shins with her walking stick until we moved.
Another of the plans was crying. Putting your all into pretending to be so upset that you needed to sit on the comfortable chairs and be made a fuss of. That didn’t work either though, as one of two things would usually happen: You’d either be allowed to sit until you’d stopped sobbing then get chucked straight back into the room, or you’d be taken home early; before Nan had offered up the cake and before Aunt Sharon had offered up sneaky sips of wine.
As family would leave, the chairs would slowly become free again meaning the remaining children could wander back in and sit down. It only lasted for around 5 minutes though, just while our parents went to grab coats and the remaining shards of our new toys.
Come to think of it, the chair wars still go on now. The only difference is that there are fewer kids and they’re a lot sneakier than the first generation of us faced with the dilemma of how to escape the room. It’s now mine and my older cousins turn to sit on the chairs and drop crisp crumbs down that the youngest picks up to eat, it’s our turn to leave the stale jelly babies in the bowl as we gather to watch The Great Escape with our aunts and uncles. As we do, we spot feet poking from underneath the pile of coats chucked on one of the cushions, and some of the kids are pretending to be asleep on their parents lap.
There are loud echoes of high-pitched squealing and fighting in the dreaded room between the ones who haven’t plotted an escape yet.
As we all see this happening, we former inmates of the room look at each other and laugh nostalgically before picking the kids up by the arms and slinging them back in once more.