Since I'm still in the Christmas spirit, I've written a very xmassy story which I will now share with the world. It's here, on my sadly neglected Live Journal.
It was an easy genesis. I was chatting with someone about the word hotel - specifically the guitarist in the Kills, rather than the buildings, but I it made me remember that my parents, in an effort to eliminate the stress of cooking for three people, used to go to hotels for Christmas, usually in the coldest and wettest of northern seaside resorts, like Scarborough or Whitby. Sometimes this strategy worked out well, sometimes it didn't. Once we spent the entire weekend tiptoing around fame, as Freddie Trueman's daughter was there. Or she may have been Geoff Boycott's,I forget. Anyway, the closest to royalty I'll ever get. At those hotels, I learned to crack walnuts with my bare hands and ate more satsumas than anyone should really attempt.
The story is a thinly fictionalized version of this annual trip. I've thrown in, y'know, conflict and like, character development because that's what story-tellers do. It's short, about 2,600 words, and it's really Christmassy. Some of the absurd dishes are fictional, but probably not as many as you think.