I love pubs every day of the year. But I love pubs on Christmas Day most of all.

On Christmas morning, everything familiar looks slightly different – almost as if the light has changed. You instantly forget what day of the week it is. Daily routine is replaced by annual tradition. In our house, after the bucks fizz and salmon blinis, after the presents have been opened, and once the turkey is settled on the oven, it’s time for a brief hour in the local pub.

It’s a liminal space – almost magical. Even if you were in here last night, being served by the same staff, it doesn’t feel the same. If you’re in a city, many of the younger regulars have gone back to their parents for a few days. One or two familiar faces may have their parents with them. Even if you’re only on nodding terms for the rest of the year you wish each other Merry Christmas and introduce your relatives.

There’s no music. The chatter is loud and full of laughter, but never deafening.

The bar staff have become legends, selflessly giving up their Christmas morning for you. Every round must include drinks for them, which they smile and accept kindly, ready for the end of their shift.

You know you’re not settling in for the day, but it is the place to be before everything else begins. Whether you’re popping in for a pint or staying on for the pub’s proper Christmas Day dinner itself, it is where everyone comes together, marking the moment before the day opens out in different directions.

This year for me, it’ll be just one drink – something special – before heading home to check on the turkey.  If we’re having guests for Christmas dinner – and we usually do – they might meet us in the pub, and everyone will turn up at home about an hour later, refreshed and laughing, the festivities well under way.

It might be a few days before we’re back again. And even though the Christmas decorations will still be up and the jumpers still on, even though it still feels festive, it won’t feel the same as Christmas morning. It never will. Until next year.