A flooded house. Instagram-induced meltdowns. Missing roasties. Marianne Jones has had a few festive mishaps, but there’s liberation in things not going quite to plan, she says.

There have been so many imperfect Christmas Days in my life that I’d forgive Santa for giving our chimney a miss. Near biblical floods, shockingly bad present choices, misbehaving Christmas trees, I’ve lived through them all.


   
Last year, we got off lightly, with the episode of the missing roast potatoes. It was our first Christmas as ‘empty nesters’ and I really wanted to make the day extra special for our two semi-adult sons who were returning home for the occasion.
   
I am a criminally terrible cook, so decided to cheat by throwing money at the problem and ordering Christmas dinner from an online food-delivery service. All I had to do was put the oven on, pour myself a glass or three of Crémant and place the crackers on the table. Job done.
   
Only it wasn’t. As I removed the trimmings from the freezer on Christmas morning, I discovered that the pack of delicious goose-fat roast potatoes I’d definitely ordered was nowhere to be found.
   
Fast forward to some choice language that was anything but festive, a trip by my husband, clad in Santa jumper, to our local garage shop that was obviously closed, and me furiously attempting to chat with an online robot to no avail.
   
To add fuel to ‘Spudgate’, I hadn’t realised the turkey was smothered in bacon, which my eldest suddenly decided he no longer ate. At the end of the meal – which didn’t last very long – my youngest declared he’d made better lunches in his university halls of residence kitchen and they both put the kettle on for a Pot Noodle. In years gone by, I’d have wailed into my tin of Quality Street at this festive faux pas. But with age and slightly more wisdom I’ve realised it’s those imperfect moments woven into the fabric of our family history that are remembered with fondness and laughter.
   
For many years, mostly when the children were small and I was exhausted, Christmas was my least favourite time of the year, filled with petty rows and a feeling of failure. I was time-poor and domestically challenged, once furtively buying someone else’s homemade Christmas cake at the school fair to pass off as my own.
   
Instead of presents festooned in bows and candy canes, my gift wrapping was a family joke (“have you never heard of corners?” my husband once asked). Comparing friends’ magical tablescaping on Instagram to my own basic salt-and-pepper efforts would induce a mild panic attack and make me hate my napkins. I became The Grinch.
   
I only wish I could tell my younger, frazzled self to chill the hell out, because these ‘disasters’ of Christmas past are now pure comedy gold. My sons still guffaw about the year their dad left his present-buying until Christmas Eve, and recreate my facial expressions as I unwrapped a hedge trimmer. Yes, readers, I was tempted to use it. And not on the hedge.
   
We’re even borderline nostalgic about our most disastrous Christmas ever, when the boiler flooded in the cellar, days after I’d brought our new-born son home. I went into hormonal meltdown as we tucked into a terrible lunch wearing bobble hats, instead of paper crowns, to keep warm. The day was eventually saved by a heroic emergency plumber, called Roy.
   
With each Christmas my perfection levels drop another notch. I’ve wasted too much time in pursuit of the right brand of hoodie or correct Lego set over the years, yet it’s the thoughtful, simple gestures that reap the biggest rewards. My lads still cherish the photobooks I compiled for them each Christmas, which always triumphed over the expensive and the flashy.
   
I recently looked at photos of one particularly large family gathering and wondered why I’d fretted at having to seat everyone at the table in mismatched chairs. I wish I’d worried less about the chairs and had extra fun with the three loved ones who are no longer with us and will never sit at that table again. Non-matching chairs, like badly wrapped presents or lumpy gravy, don’t matter, but fun games, shared laughter and memories do.
   
This Christmas will inevitably bring fresh chaos – and hopefully some potatoes. The comedy capers usually begin with the tree, which usually falls over at least twice, due to an overexcited cockapoo, resulting in bauble carnage.
   
For 15 years, I’ve placed the same decoration on top of that accident-prone tree – a crumpled angel, made from the inside of a loo roll by my, then pre-school, son. Its wings are battered and its halo wonky. But it wouldn’t be Christmas without it. And to me, that’s perfect enough.

Marianne Jones is an award-winning journalist and former editor of The Telegraph Magazine, The Sunday Telegraph Stella Magazine and deputy editor of Grazia. She is the co-host of Been There Done That Got The Podcast. Follow her on Instagram @mariannejonesuk and @gotthepodcast