The Daily Telegraph Life Begins at 30 I was supposed to be in Brazil on Christmas day but a slight change of plan means that I will be in Barnet with the Family. Every year, I say the same: that next year will be different. But it seems impossible to escape them. Auntie J-Lo will be seated at the head of the table, bling in tow - or rather on toe, hand, ankle, arm, neck - and orange paper crown on head. She will ask me between the starter and the main course to remind her of how old I am. "A year older then last year," I will respond. "Thirty-four," she will shout across the table and wait for my Auntie Asha to catch the remark and throw it back, adding the latest family wedding or child birth statistic. Christmas is not designed for a 34-year-old single person. My family are Hindus our reasons for celebrating Christmas are tenuous, to say the least. Rudolf being brown is one. And my Uncle Ram (J-Lo's husband) insists that one of the three kings proceeded from Kerala, coconut in hand. It wouldn't be so bad if the food was good. Normally, Auntie J-Lo is a fantastic cook but some kind of madness takes over her and cloves are daggered through the turkey, turmeric is dusted on the potatoes and Tabasco added to the gravy. When the meal is finished, there will be that moment where the silence says you can redeem yourself of all your failings if you volunteer. Volunteering is an unspoken code of conduct. Somewhere in the rule book it says: those with no children or husbands and who do not have to endure 364 days of domestic duties will do the washing-up. The aunties will breathe a hearty sigh of relief as my chair scrapes back and I say: "Don't worry, this won't take me long." I'm often accompanied by a female cousin who is on the shelf or divorced. Party games are the highlight of the day and I am the first to initiate them. This is wholly for selfish reasons, so my extended family members can see how bright and agile I still am. After I've beaten everyone at Trivial Pursuit, I bring out Twister. Before you know it, my little cousins, nieces and nephews are shouting: "Look mummy, daddy, look at Auntie Preethi." I am by this stage doing the bridge pose on the Twister mat, desperately willing my body not to let me down. The moment it does, I will be banished to the corner of the room, whiskey in hand, to join the sad uncle who nobody talks to. He, too, at some stage in his life did the Twister routine and now rambles on about it as his crowning moment. Last year, the older children were not impressed with the bridge move. In fact, some of them looked quite embarrassed. So I tried to impress them with the technological lingo that I'm sure their parents are unfamiliar with. Being unencumbered at 34 means that I have time to acquaint myself with developments across all sectors of society. Though they were only four feet away from me and it took me almost half an hour to do it, I sent them a text message: "All raait! R U havin a gr8 time?" No sooner had I sent it, one came back straight away. I was amazed by the speed of their nimble fingers. "Get a life Auntie P." In my thirties, I have learnt not to take rejection personally, so I sent another one back: "Sorted." Don't ask me why, but present opening is normally at the end of the day, possibly because mad rambling uncle has fallen asleep and no one except me bothers to get him anything. Year after year, there is the assortment of bizarre gifts. You would think that the range of presents available for a 30- year old someone is vast. But no. Last year, Auntie J-Lo eagerly watched me unwrap a set of His and Hers matching towels. "Another year gone, we can only hope and pray," she sighed. Next year things will be different. On Christmas morning, sipping a Caipirinha, I will send a text: "Merry Christmas. C u L8r."