Are we nearly there yet? (2012)

If not, why not? Christmas, which to be fair is looking pretty tired and tatty by the night before Christmas Eve, has now been going on for six weeks, and long before I have sung carols, opened gifts, and pulled crackers, the tv has decided it's over. The adverts are no longer dominated by scent and aftershave, but by "SALE STARTS BOXING DAY!!!"

It is as though there is no time to do anything , because you should be planning to do something else. Having endured Christmas shopping in Sainsbury's this very day, I am in no mood to go out on Wednesday and shop for anything, thank you very much. I found the last parking place in the world and when I left an idiot would hardly let me drive off for mooching and lurking over it before I had left it. Go out on Wednesday? I should cocoa.

NOTICE TO SHOPS: I HAVEN'T HAD MY CHRISTMAS YET. LEAVE ME ALONE YOU VULTUROUS BASTARDS.

It's exactly the same as the annoying television habit of obscuring credits by plastering details of coming attractions on a split-screen at the end of a programme. This makes me feel not only put-upon, but annoyed. I like the credits. Sometimes I'm curious as to who has played a role or composed the music. Sometimes I like to enjoy a moment of quiet reflection on the programme just finished. Never do I wish to have the creepy voice of the Phantom of the Operative Bungloiderers yattering on in a smarmy Smashing and Nicey voice about my possible viewing choices which have not yet even started. It causes me to switch off the tv faster than I ever thought anything could. If not, I mute it and concentrate on my knitting, for I expect if I watch these workings of the Dark Fairies my brain will be turned to mush.

Bungloiderers at the BBC have also been on the case at Strictly Come Dancing, where this season's Saturday night subtitles have been striking for many reasons, all fine examples of Numptiness Unleashed. I enjoyed the information that Matt di Angelo is an alumnus of the Slyvia Young Theatre School, but this dyslexic reinterpretation did not equal the subtitler's earlier Fabulous Mistake of broadcasting "Name and Name: Number 09011 21 30 XX", instead of the full names of the couple and their voting number. It sort of brought the BBC to a whole new level of phoneline tampering, but by reason of sheer incompetence, which is always a nice change from grasping and avaricious deceit. Rather like Channel 4's moments of sound mixing during the last few weeks, when sound has just buggered off, or wrong pictures been matched to the track, this is amusing mainly because these people spend huge sums on their Empires, and yet they don't train their broadcast staff - the frontline, you might say. The operatives are thinking about their futures too much to carry out their tasks, and their masters are too busy with their plans for World Domination to waste energy on the Here and Now. We sit at home, being ignored for being now.

It reminds me of government. They, too, want me to get on with my future before I have dealt with my presents. Get on with your life, underlings, because if you don't hurry up and finish first, everybody else will be after your afters. Except for me. I will be at home, watching rubbish tv and knitting. Stitch that.

Chrstmas Creeps Closer ...

... you can't run and you can't hide. Seasonal inebriation and weirdness is afoot all around. People have started talking to themselves in shops. For some reason Christmas shopping brings us nutters out in droves, and we wander about the glittery displays wittering away to ourselves like so many senile fairies at a spell-chanting convention, trying desperately to remember their incantations wordperfect. Some sing soft seasonal melodies to themselves as they sway in front of sparkling trees and little fluffy fairy figures. I feel terrifically at home in department stores at this time of the year.

The wind is blowing up a bit now, as well. I live in an area called Windmill Hill, which, it may or may not surprise you to learn, is windy. It's clearly still a bit of a shock to the council, who must receive about a thousand requests for new recycling boxes and mini-bins every Christmastide, for they are emptied at around 10 am, leaving them a good seven hours to play the excellent wind-powered game of "which bin can get the furthest away from home" which so delights their little plastic souls. For those which don't enjoy that there is also, "which bin/box can cause most havoc and hazard on the roads", a popular secondary game, often drawing passers by into the fun. High times.

Also, my car has been vandalised, and this is another sign of the time of year. In December some dimwit - a term I use advisedly - tries to nick my car. According to the police they are trying to get home, which is heart-rendingly sad as my car, though small and ancient and easy to get into, is impossible to drive away due to it having an immobiliser chip in it. Since they have not found this out (over five years and three attempted thefts, people!) I assume they must be off-worlders and their belief that my car will fly them home is so sad that I nearly weep with pity for them. Frustrated by our Earth Hi-Technology, they chuck the plastic lock cowl into the back seat and re-lock the door and have to walk home anyway.

So - Christmas is on its way, and this year there is a threat in my world of No Proper Dinner - a taster of what it will be like to be old and have nobody to make angel costumes for. It is not particularly nice for anybody, but we must plod on, brains melted with concern about tinsel and stuffing, and complain as heartily as we can until it is all safely over.

I Just Wonder ... if anybody anticipates getting or giving anything truly wanted this year? Answers please!