As we hurtle, plummeting headlong towards the festive season like a badly-affixed bauble, it is time to consider the true meaning of Christmas. After all, wouldn’t we otherwise wish it could be Christmas every day? Aren’t we simply having a wonderful Christmas-time? Is it not the done thing to ding-dong? Preferably from on high. And merrily, according to the instruction.
As a child Christmas was one of the Holy Trinity to me – up there with Halloween and Bonfire Night on the calendar. For the ten-year-old me, it was all about the same experiences, year after year. Going to a frosty forest for the tree, picking presents out of the Great Universal catalogue, pinching a nip of Babycham, avoiding sprouts and thanking aged relatives for extravagantly-wrapped packs of socks.
But now? Surely Christmas is just expense, hassle, queues and acid indigestion? Perhaps. But look. It's Christmas Eve. I've finished work and I'm not doing any more running around. The house groans under the weight of festive fare. I'm using phrases like 'festive fare'.
Perhaps, if we wish very hard, the jaded old curmudgeon will remember what it's like to be a ten-year-old again. It’s Christmas. Time for miracles.