Love 'em or loathe 'em, students are part of the rich tapestry that is Bath life. This week, local student Richard Diggle will examine the ugly truths surrounding Christmas and the mass exodus home after months of carefree campus life.

Well it's that time of year again. Time for peace on earth and good will to all men. Time to deck the halls with boughs of holly. Time, more importantly, for students throughout the land to put on a big smile and a clean pair of pants and return back to that pressure-cooker called home.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not suggesting that returning to a house full of creature comforts isn't appealing. And it will be lovely to see my parents again. Well, for the first hour or so anyway; after that things becomes a little bit harder.

Initially my return is treated with joy. The smiles, the hugs, the random pats on the back from my dad, all conspire to show me how much they have missed me. Sweet I know, but it's also very disconcerting. Luckily the veneer quickly starts to fade (often triggered by an unwashed cup) and soon the bombardment of questions begins.

First the issue of my health is raised: "You look pale, are you getting enough sleep/exercise/vitamins?", which is quickly followed by: "You're getting fat. All beer and no exercise I bet "

This is a particular favourite with my older brother and sister who had to put up with me teasing them over the same thing back when I was a skinny youngster.

Next comes an inquisition on a whole range of topics from my love life, to my grades, to my inept handling of money, followed by an NHS-campaign-style quiz on drinking, smoking and drug abuse.

After this intense 'catch-up' session comes the fortnight or so of trying to be a pleasant individual.

I don't know why I feel a pressure to pretend I'm a saint when I return home I guess it's to encourage them to keep sending the cheques. It's not actually that hard in fairness, and the incentives of being in what is essentially a free hotel keep me happy enough.

The only time when it becomes really difficult is on the big day itself.

Imagine, if you will, Christmas day at the Diggle household. My siblings and I are roused from our drunken stupors with the fact that the grandparents will arrive in half an hour. Despite the delicious smells which fill the house, we aren't allowed to eat anything until they turn up, although we are actively encouraged to start on the champagne.

The Volvo pulls up outside and dutifully we all gather by the front door to greet the two old dears and my dad and to help carry in the mass of bags and boxes which they obviously need for their overnight stay.

After my grandmother has transferred her lipstick onto all our cheeks, we sit in the lounge and drink tea, scoff biscuits and listen attentively to tales of hospitals and funerals. Then comes the second wave of questions.

It is easy to see where my mother inherited her skills from, as although she has now reached the ripe old age of 90, my grandmother's interrogation technique is still masterly.

Again my pale, lardy body is a point of interest, with the girlfriend issue in hot pursuit, and money and work bringing up the rear.

The questions now are more difficult to answer, simply due to the volume that is required and the constant repetition and nodding of the head.

Onto the meal, with our family keen to uphold the tradition of wearing stupid paper hats and eating enough to fill you for the rest of the week.

The Queen's speech is inflicted on us, with my grandmother's talking wisely about her dress and this is followed by a 'boys vs. girls' Trivial Pursuit game, in which my, now drunk, Gran claims she was on holiday during the war.

After that everything seems to become a bit more bearable. Perhaps it's because new year is coming and we all go our separate ways to celebrate.

Perhaps the joy of having had the family together has made everyone feel special and loved. Or perhaps it's because we all know there are another 364 days before we have to do it again!