Every year ....

*pauses to wrestle rising hysteria to the ground and throttle it*

... I have promised - sworn, even - to write my Christmas cards at the beginning of December.

A swear accompanied by a cosy little vision of carol music, mulled wine, mince pies and a pile of cards, written in a neat copperplate hand, bearing news of the wonderful life I have lived in the year since the recipient and I haven't met yet again, being thrust through the Post Box along with a self-satisfied smile and a burst of "Have yourself a merry little Christmas ..."

And once again, the sad reality is a "I'm locking you in your room until you finish them because it's last posting date tomorrow"

Actually, the new version is growing on me - cos there's a computer in my room and a Christmas cake to make and a tree to decorate when I finish the cards. If only I'd had the foresight to bring in a bottle of sherry and a mince pie, I could be ding donging merrily on high.