I love Christmas! Yes, even at my great age, Christmas is a time of magical wonderment, made even better with a good splattering of snow. With just one exception. And if what I am about to write upsets you, Cedric, or any other of my friends, I apologise in advance.
I have an intense dislike of those letters that sometimes - but, thankfully, not too often - accompany Christmas cards. Picture me, opening envelopes, enjoying the smiling robins, the grinning reindeer and the liberal helpings of tinsel, when without any warning, sheets of closely typed A4, sometimes with colour photographs, drops out.
I have no problem with the idea, it is just that there is always not just Good News, but Brilliantly Good News of the kind
that is never ever experienced in my family. Not in any of the 84 Christmases I have enjoyed.
I am delighted to hear that Clarrisa (please note spelt with two r's, the letter tells me, which is a kindly way of advising me that I got it wrong on her birthday card) got a double first at Cambridge when studying ancient prehistoric something-or-other, and it is good to know that her brother, Alistair, is about to scale Everest on New Year's Eve wearing nothing but the trunks he wore when swimming the English Channel. Charles (he hates being called Charlie, you should be aware and has been known to punch anyone calling him Char) is now studying for this A levels, having achieved twelve at A* in his GCSE's (with a disappointing E in common-sense, I should not wonder!)
Thank you for telling me that Rupert is spending his gap year in the Sahara Desert researching the loves (and the lives, too, for that matter) of indigenous insects with only a camel for company. Good on Rupert, I say!
Your three month holiday in the Siberian Tundra (which I did not know existed) sounds thrilling. The fact that it took you three sides of A4 to ensure that I am fully acquainted with every moment of every day is far beyond the call of duty.
And so they go on. Frederika loved Patagonia, Egbert will never get over Wonga at night, Marshall is now the top man in the top bank he joined all those years ago when he came down from wherever he had been, Marigold now wishes to be known as Hip-Hop Marigold as she has taken up the subject (whatever that is).
Matilda and Herbert's new house sounds wonderful, situated as it is in the most expensive area of Hampstead, whilst it is good to know that the neighbours are celebrities and that they all have Rolls Royce's - what else?
Sad to hear that Johan and Artichoke have been forced to downsize, but I guess they will still have room to entertain in their twelve bedrooms - although it is noted that there are only eleven bathrooms, all ensuite, of course!
So please, save me the agony. Just a card will do fine. Honest!
