Aside from the ham bone, you'll probably talk about nothing in particular (much like this column!) but maybe you'll have a natter about New Year resolutions, as we did.
Chances are those you have chosen to join you for such a discussion are similarly afflicted with the apparent festive season need to stuff yourself silly. And now you've all got a big test to face. You have to sit down and get comfortable.
You KNOW you've packed on a few kilos. But the chair you've trusted all year to gently mould itself round your bum, cushioning it with the utmost care and attention, beckons like a warm, cosy bed on a winter's night. Everything will be just perfect.
In slow motion you begin to lower yourself to sit but something doesn't feel quite right. You are a bit heavier than normal and now your downward plunge is out of control ...
Before you can bring it to a halt you've gone past the point of no return. Your knees, which two weeks ago would have been strong enough to save the day and push you back up to safety, are on strike; refusing to work with the excess weight, there's nothing to stop you sitting down.
Your heavy new backside smashes through the first layer of seat cushioning like a knife through butter.
Next comes that revolutionary bit of "memory foam" the salesman told you about. Apparently Nasa uses it. It's the one that cost you that little bit extra when you bought it. The one crushed as the Titanic heads for the bottom.
And then your bum is introduced to the seat frame. The wooden frame that's hidden away deep in the chair, basically just to hold the foam up. It groans as your full weight bears down. Wonder of all wonders, it holds! But it creaks every time you breathe.
Hopefully it'll hold until the traditional New Year resolution kicks in. You know the one, where we all decide we are going to lose weight and exercise more.
Professor Google informs me sticking to a New Year's resolution requires 66 days of effort. Apparently that's how long it takes to break a habit by establishing a new one.
If your chair can last 66 days (and Nasa's memory foam remembers where it used to be and bounces back to full plushness) you'll be in for a good year.
But for now, at Maison Le Page, No1 Son and I are discussing our New Year resolutions. Our talk is interspersed with the sound of creaking timbers as I rattle off my list. It sounds like I'm on one of those tall old ships from The Onedin Line.
I vow to eat less, exercise more, lose weight, get my Christmas shopping done by the end of November and generally try to relax and spend more time with the love of my life.
No1 Son has simpler ambitions. He plans to work on his abs at the gym.
Looking over the breakfast bar from the kitchen, where she's busy wearing a track in the tiles between the fridge and bench, Mrs P chimes in. She plans to be more decisive this year. Maybe not get distracted by other things so often.
As always, I am proud of her. But I haven't the heart to tell her she's just cooked a salad in the microwave.
