You're all probably wholeheartedly sick of turkey by now, but not as sick of it as we are, I can guarantee.

You may remember that a couple of weeks ago I revealed a family dilemma we were facing over who was to cook the fowl.

Although we were hosting Christmas dinner, I'd forgotten I'd asked my mum to provide the turkey and had already made my husband order one.

We then had to decide who should cancel their order - and we were the ones who gracefully backed down.

Anyway, on Christmas morning my dad rang to tell us he was "wrestling with a big fat bird" and that they'd be on their way down to Brighton as soon as he had made enough room in the car for it.

Contrary to what my husband initially thought, my dad was referring to the turkey.

When they arrived, my mother emerged from the car carrying what appeared to be a foil-covered ostrich.

"It's the butcher's fault," she panted as she staggered up the path to our house with the baking tray.

"He gave me a 32lb turkey instead of a 17lb one. Didn't charge me any extra - but look at the size of the damn thing."

The damn thing was indeed stupendous and had taken six hours to cook in my parents' oven.

It was clearly going to be far too much for the six of us who would be celebrating the festive occasion together.

In fact, we calculated that even if we were to eat it every night for the next week, there would still be enough meat left over for another fortnight.

"Better make a start on it then," said my brother, who'd decided to forgo his Brussels sprouts to make room for some extra slices.

So all six of us stuffed ourselves with it for two meals on Christmas Day, which was wasn't difficult .

We had to declare to my mother that it was "bootiful" and that she could give Bernard Matthews a buttering any day.

Through our gorging, we managed to reduce its bulk to that of a large emu.

Two more meals of it followed on Boxing Day, and the pattern was repeated for the day after Boxing Day.

We got through a couple of jars of mustard and pickle to liven up our sandwiches and boiled up another pound of cranberries to add some colour.

We had it in risottos, curries, pies, fricassees - but, sadly, the bird proved too much for us.

By the end of the week we were almost too scared to look in the fridge to see how much was still left.

My husband suggested giving it to the local cats which, considering how much he detests domestic felines, is a measure of how unhappy he was at the prospect of yet another turkey dinner.

But when we left a few token scraps outside the back door, we found there were no takers.

Clearly all the moggies were already sick to their whiskers with it, too.

We even tried offering it to a few friends in case they had run out of turkey supplies and received an unwarranted amount of ridicule for our charity.

Finally, with just my husband, myself and our three-year-old left in the house, the remains of the bird were wrapped in plastic and unceremoniously put in the bin.

And we sat down to a fantastic supper of cheese on toast.

No more turkey tales now, I promise.