My mum also used to insist that my dad moved their enormous dining table that was stored in the loft because it never got used at any other time into the spare downstairs room 'because it's Christmas'. For maximum bother it had to be on Christmas morning. Never a day or so before.
He used to heft it down the stairs under her nagging, get accused of scratching the wallpaper and risk a heart attack or hernia. She used to supervise the assembly process and tell him to hurry up.
Then she'd make him take it to pieces and put it back as soon as it was cleared because it was in the way when he just wanted to sit down in front of James Bond. Cue incipient heart attack and imaginary scratches on the wallpaper again.
Since he sensibly opted out of this world and no one else will play that game she has a different dining table that is always up. There is always a drama involved in finding the correct table cloth and laying it.
I was once accused of searching for my Christmas presents and therefore ruining Christmas for her deliberately. I hadn't. I was the least curious child ever. She'd asked me to find something for her in the bloody wardrobe in November and I found them by accident.
What kind of person hides Christmas presents, even from the least curious child in the world, in the bloody wardrobe and then tells them to look there for something else?
She'd also make him write out hundreds of cards over several nights which was torture for everyone. He had very nice handwriting but she'd always start a row because he'd occasionally put down the wrong names even though she bloody told him which one was which and he always used to question her before putting pen to paper.
She'd change her mind when he'd done it and then fly into an enormous rage because 'Everyone knows Pat doesn't like coaching scenes and it's wasted now and it was very expensive'.
I'm on card duty now even though my handwriting's like a monkey's. Luckily Pat is dead along with most of the others.
I do love her really 