In the morning the other kids laughed at your sissy new pullover with its gambolling lambs. By mid-afternoon you'd broken your Tonka truck, and lost the Meccano key.
Come tea time your parents weren't speaking because ... well frankly, I was never quite sure why. Parents are a puzzle. On Christmas Day a dad is delighted by his easy-assemble-barbecue. On Boxing Day he snaps when you suggest the diagram actually means bolt 3 fastens into hole 6.
The real purpose of Boxing Day has become a mystery, and it's time the holiday was renamed. At its core it is now Nothing Happens Day; although credible alternatives may be Hangover Day, Snooze Monday, or perhaps The Festival of Ennui.
The Americans don't observe Boxing Day because it is unTrumply, and besides, it started out as the UK's day for being kind to all their Tiny Tims. The Brits left out nicely boxed presents for the hunched coalman, the bedraggled garbo, and the whistling postie. When wrapping up giftboxes became too much bother, they sensibly moved to beer or cash.
The aristocrats gave servants the 26th off so their menials could box up the scattered remains of the Christmas lunch, and share its fancy leftovers with relatives.
''Gorblimey, what's this Cousin Alf?'' asked Auntie Rose, prodding gingerly at something that resembled a plate of small ball bearings.
''His Lordship calls them things caviar. First 'e spreads 'em on croutons. He wolfs them down, then gives 'is throat a good gargle with his Frog champagne. Cook - she tells me that actually them caviar be fishes' eggs.''
''Eggs you say? And they puts 'em on croot-uns? Did nobody tell the poor buggers eggs goes with sausages and chips?''
I think working on Boxing Day is the pits. In television news, being rostered to produce was worse than drawing Christmas. At least you could pad the Christmas bulletin with stalwarts like the bitter-sweet Salvo's lunch; clunking messages from Queen and Bishop; and campers' Christmas ruined by storms or E. coli outbreaks. (Perhaps interview Bishop Tamaki to find which sinners to blame this year? Blame is good).
But producing a Boxing Day news is more hopeless. It would be better to pronounce: ''No news worth reporting,'' and cross to a telethon replay. (Remember telethons?). But being professionals, telly journos do as they must. Boxing Day's news subjects have no use-by date. You lead with traffic jams, go back to the campers, then follow with crowds storming the Boxing Day sales.
I've never rallied to the bugle call as dawn breaks over a Boxing Day sale. But it sounds rather like going over the top to hurl yourself at the enemy's trenches. There'll be stretcher crews posted to high risk areas like the Christmas returns counter. It must get ugly when the bargain battalions realise the waffle machine bought at full tick on the 24th is half price by the 26th.
I see this year's Boxing Day sales will last up to five days. Perhaps I should experiment and join the real world. I could buy something useful, like a shinier toaster.
It's taken a lifetime, but actually, I now have Boxing Day sorted. The key to Nothing Happens Day is to go with its torpid flow. Settle for the ritual drone of the Black Caps cricket match, which helps you concentrate on the book you got for Christmas.
This year my cousin sent me a useful anthology of insults. Eager to arm myself, I had an early peep at Scorn by Matthew Parris, and its chapter on Royalty insults. There are some goodies:
''So thick and yet so thin'' - on Princess Diana.
''He's a man of many ideas - most of them bad.'' (The intellect of Prince Charles).
And there was the awed Joe Blow, who found himself beside King George VI at a royal knees up. ''Would you care for a cigar?'' asked the King of the Britons, and Emperor of India.
''No thank you; I only smoke on special occasions,'' replied the quaking commoner. Oops ... Well, some of the finest insults are inflicted accidentally.
I suggest that today you have breakfast at noon, and ignore children's pleas to play catch. Snooze in the hammock - and strictly observe the newly named ''All Sloths' Day''.
-John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.
