Alongside the other 40,000 people spending time in the Christmas markets in Cologne, I was on the hunt for Christmas tree baubles. Looking at the pretty wooden painted figures, it struck me that we return, time and time again to a Christmas which isn't now. Victorian, the fifties, Edwardian, - anything in fact, which isn't now. Even those who couldn't have been around in the fifties are yearning towards a dream of Christmas which might never have existed anyway.

We base our dreams on Hollywood, Bing and White Christmas, impossibly glamorous women in gowns, elegant men in tuxedos and wonder why we always feel slightly cheated when the reality arrives. We seek the tinsel and glitter or the rich red and dull gold of the baubles which adorn the tree, hoping they will weave some sort of magic around our deeply domestic lives. This magic might include making tetchy six year olds and ancient relatives disappear, being slender enough not to care about overeating or snoring after lunch, and having partners who look like Bryan Ferry or Lauren Bacall.

It may also mean having enough rooms for quiet and peaceful reading, enough talent for songs and music and a grand piano, bright sunshine and clean snow for exercise and fun.

Instead, we are crammed together at the table, sitting two deep in front of the tv with the central heating too high, making everyone fractious and irritable. The kids forget their manners, parents and in-laws bicker over ownership of the kitchen, and the Big Day descends into a marathon of bitten lips and iron politeness. We're so enamoured of a celluloid version of Christmas that the reality of miserable, ill-considered presents, screaming, over-tired children and over-rich cooking is simply unpalatable.

We've been brainwashed by Nigela, Delia, and Heston that it's possible to look glorious, have the perfect table decorations, cook like an angel and talk sensibly to visitors at the same time without breaking sweat. Most of the time we fail miserably and then never fail to compare our best imagined selves with the people we'd like to be, like those people in the films.

All of which leaves us perfectly miserable.

This is not the way it should be. Forget Grace Kelly and Danny Kaye, even Harry and Sally. Embrace Aunty Elsie, cousin Michael and the in laws and love that they are deeply, irrevocably uncool. Forgive them unaired clothes, bad aftershave, or lily of the valley perfume from 1972. Bypass dreadful haircuts, unsuitable clothing, indecent necklines and plain bad taste.

Bear in mind this is just one day. One day in 365 others. People will not turn into pillars of salt if the roast potatoes are burnt, the stuffing soggy or the trifle sloppy. They won't be talking for months if the tree isn't just so, the crackers filled with knick-nacks from Liberty, or if the festive garland is rather drunkenly uneven. They won't be mentally scarred if they've read the book you bought them already, or downloaded months ago the album you queued in the rain for. Or if the colour of the sweater isn't right.

If we were a bit more relaxed around Christmas, then we might be a bit kinder to others. Which might mean a bit more of the magic we had been looking for in the baubles. But for real.

Wishing you a stress-free Christmas and a gentle New Year.