We'd had a reasonably ordinary build-up to the big day. You know the sort of thing I mean. Late night shopping, groceries which cost a million bucks and took three hours and a team of sherpas to get into the pantry, a couple of last minute pressies to buy etc etc but in the end the pressure just got to me and I snapped.
It came right out of the blue too. One minute I was talking to the family and the next minute there he was. Right in front of me. Challenging me.
But it was his attitude that cheesed me off most. You know the type. Big, fat, arrogant. Like he owned the place.
I swear I tried to turn away and let it go. I really did. But something inside me said: "Bugger this. I could do it when I was 20. I can do it now. I'm no chicken. I've still got it".
So I stared back for a while, took a deep breath and went for it.
There was a noticeably sharp intake of breath as Mrs P and the kids realised what was going down. Number One son, a fine physical specimen, had my back. He stood poised to help out should I require.
But I was confident. I wasn't going to let this ruin my Christmas. It would be over quickly and later I would enjoy a celebratory vino with the family as I retold the tale of my victory again and again. Or so I thought.
I felt comfortable during the initial confrontation, light on my feet, picking away at the places where I knew I could do most damage.
Then, ever so slowly, lethargy began to seep in, made even worse by the fact my nameless opponent hardly even tried to put up a fight. He just kept trying to stare me down. I swear I heard him mutter: "You can't beat me. You're too old. You can't handle me".
It got to me. I began to doubt myself. I felt heavy, out of breath, winded. But I hung in there.
Number One son could see I was beginning to tire and inched a bit closer. He must have realised from the pained look on my face that the tide was turning away from me. Finally he intervened.
"Enough!," he said with the commanding air that won him second place in the speech contest at Mokoia Intermediate in 1998.
My opponent shot me one last "up yours" glance as Number One son ushered him aside.
Later as I recovered on the couch under the watchful gaze of Mrs P, my midriff bruised, and my pride even more battered, I reflected on the whole ghastly experience. What had gone wrong? I could have taken him easy when I was younger. Maybe I am getting too old for such behaviour? Perhaps I should've stepped aside?
Mrs P, cold compress dabbing at my forehead, put it in perspective.
"Maybe next year you shouldn't try and eat the whole Christmas turkey," she said.
