The walls of my snow globe are smooth, glassy. I’ve been in here since Christmas 1974. I spend 11 months of the year in the loft, shoved in a box with baubles, tinsel and fairy lights. Then every December, one of the kids hauls me out with an excited cry of, ‘It’s the snowman!’ and gives me a shake. They watch the snow tumble over me and then, because there’s always something more exciting, they put me on the mantelpiece and forget about me.

From my domed, transparent world, I’ve seen everything. Kids poking, squidging and rattling the presents, scoffing chocolates off the tree and stuffing the wrappers down the back of the sofa. Secret glugs of sherry. Teenage snogs under the mistletoe. And squabbles, endless noisy family squabbles over who ate all the green triangles out of the Quality Street (Nan), who over-cooked the turkey (Dad), who drank the last of the Bailey’s (Cheryl from next door) and who ate the Christmas ham (Cheryl’s dog).

I’ve watched the kids hurl themselves, shrieking at the pile of presents on Christmas morning, tearing off the wrapping paper and pulling out Barbies, bicycles, bath bombs, books, rubber ducks, rollerblades, robots, skateboards, scooters, socks, soap-on-a-rope, space hoppers, footballs, chocolate oranges, marbles.

And today, the first day of December, a bitterly cold wind slices through the gaps between the slates on the roof, bringing flurries of snow into the loft.

Stepladders clatter below the hatch.

‘Right then, let’s get that box of decorations down.’

The hatch is slammed open and I prepare to do my duty on the mantelpiece. I hope they remember that this Christmas marks fifty years of loyal service. Perhaps they’ll reward me with a swirl of silver tinsel or a sprig of holly. A bit of a polish, maybe. It’s the least they could do – after all, standing inside a snow globe hasn’t brought me much job satisfaction over the years.

And there’s a big world out there. I know this because a Barbie doll once told me about vast blue oceans with shoals of bright fish, paddling turtles and sharks flicking this way and that. Action Man, who’d been listening intently, said that in the Arctic Circle there are frozen lakes and glittering pine forests where wolves howl under a full-bellied moon. A bright-eyed Teddy bear then chimed in, saying he’d heard about mountains where real bears wade into gurgling rivers, using their fearsome jaws to catch leaping salmon.

These stories come to me now as one of the grandkids opens the box and pulls me out.

‘It’s the snowman!’ As usual, she gives me a shake. As usual, it makes me feel sick and dizzy.

‘Look, Nan!’

‘Oh, that old thing. It’s getting a bit tatty, love. Never mind. Stick it on the mantelpiece.’

Old? Tatty? Charming.

The kid’s been eating chicken nuggets and her fingers are greasy. It’s not difficult to slide through her little hands. I aim for the stone fireplace. The globe cracks and I’m pleased when a mild pandemonium breaks out. Maybe now I’ll get some attention.

‘Ooh, it’s broken. Sorry, Nan.’

‘Oh ’eck, never mind. We’ll chuck it outside before it leaks everywhere.’

They throw me out on the doorstep.

With my mittened hands, I prise open the cracked casing of the globe that has been my home for way too long. Picturing mountains, pine forests and frozen lakes, I squeeze out, and not caring that the jagged edges are scratching my face and arms, l leap into the snow.

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