I had hoped this year we would escape the Yuletide madness by taking a winter holiday over the festive break.

I have always fancied spending Christmas in a log cabin surrounded by snow. The thought of a roaring log fire, twinkling fairy lights, snowball fights and toboganning, and abdicating my domestic duties to a chalet girl, who would cook the turkey and wash up afterwards, was all very tempting.

In my mind, and through rose-tinted glasses, I had imagined something straight out of that years-old Wham pop video for Last Christmas.

Well, the Redgrave coffers couldn't quite run to an entire log cabin but, taking into account the money we would save by not being here to get caught up in the mad spending spree, I felt we could certainly run to a week in a ski apartment.

However, the boys would not be persuaded. Far from thinking what wonderful parents we were to want to whisk them away to a magical winter wonderland, all they could think about was what they might miss by not being at home.

The youngest was concerned his present quota might go down if we were in another country – how would Father Christmas know where to deliver the huge sack of presents that will surely be winging its way to him?

The eldest was worried we might not get back in time for him to go to whatever New Year's Eve parties he may be invited to, and the middle one was horrified at the thought there might not be a Christmas tree or festive trimmings.

So we're staying home and my Yuletide wish has been thwarted – no log cabin, no cavorting in the snow and definitely no domestic goddess in the kitchen doing all the dirty work so I don't have to.

I feel like I am turning into Scrooge and can almost hear the words Bah Humbug coming out of my mouth. I love Christmas and all the little family traditions that have built up each year since the children were small. But after years of spending Christmas Eve stuffing the turkey and peeling sprouts, it would have been nice to do something different!