From the end of August, I spied hints of Christmas tucked away in nooks and crannies of shops. Sitting rather self-consciously, knowing that they were making an appearance, almost half a year before it was right and proper to do so, baubles, cards, tinsel, festoons, trees, gifts and all manner of completely unnecessary but “truly essential” snippets of Christmas paraphernalia were there. Brooding… and breeding!
With sullen determination, I studiously ignored them and then – as always – it was virtually the end of December and the usual festive “Oh my word, some of the shops will actually be closed for a whole twenty four hours and the earth might stop revolving as a result” panic gripped me in its frenzied jaws.
Each and every year I promise myself that it will be different. Each and every year it isn’t. I do have a tip for anyone else who suffers the same angst year or year…
Forget the bonhomie when inundated with Christmas card writing. (Folk, whom I love in October, are regarded as nothing less than poison ivy, in November, when I am faced with writing messages of peace and goodwill to them, shortly before having to sell a child to fund the cost of posting the missive.) This year, I discovered that there is a quick and most satisfying means of completing the task. Find a murder – either on the screen or on the radio – with a healthy body count, then whip out your pen and list. Hey presto!
Peace to you.
