Jamie and Charlotte were eventually carted off to bed after leaving the obligatory refreshments out for Santa Claus and the reindeer with the shiny nose whose name currently escapes me.
And thankfully they came, leaving two kiddiewinks particularly pleased with the outcome on Christmas morning.
(That's a remote-controlled toilet Jamie is holding, by the way. "Corners smoothly without leaving skid marks," according to the box).
We then moved on to lunch, featuring special guests Grandma Judy and Granddad Mike.
Following Vanessa's French onion soup starter, it was time for the main event, namely Old Mike the Turkey.
Taking a mere six hours of preparation and cooking, I must confess to having felt a tad smug with my effort.
I'd never done that "shove butter under the skin" lark before, and was apprehensive. My appetite also took a bit of a hit early on when Vanessa passed by whilst I had both hands rammed inside Old Mike.
"Now you know what it's like to be a midwife," she said. Indeed.
But anyway, that was all good.
Then came Boxing Day when, for the fourth year running, I made the mistake of entering the Chevin Chase. It's a seven-mile trail race through a country park to the highest point almost 300 metres above sea level, and back down again. It's muddy, it's cold and it's dangerous (I broke a bone in my foot when I first did it). It's also traditionally won by one of the Brownlee brothers, reigning Olympic triathlon champion Alistair taking the tape yesterday with younger sibling Jonny not far behind.
Unlike me, who was far behind - in 542nd place.
Poetry in motion.
The low point for me was being passed by a man dressed as a tree whilst running through a clump of trees. Irony in its cruelest form.
Which reminds me, it's now time to treat the kids to a pub lunch. Selfless, we really are.