Our local branch of Sainsburys has gone all ho-ho-ho already. This week, almost six weeks before C-day, the poor wretched staff are already decked out in silly hats and Santa frocks, and there are horrendous great baubly things hanging from the ceiling. "Gifts" are there in abundance, including those long bottles of olive oil with what looks like half a tree floating in them and which would only ever be bought to give (and then probably thrown) away (always add Fairy liquid before pouring down the sink; see my hollondaise recipe for further details). There are crackers and mince pies and wrapping paper and... and...
...and miserable-looking shoppers, because as everyone knows, no-one, but NO-ONE, wants to be reminded that Christmas is well on the way in the middle of November, least of all women who, let's face it, do most of the shopping and most of the Christmas stuff.
But to brighten things up a bit, my granddaughter Phoebe told me on the phone this morning that what she wants for Christmas is me, "in her bedroom, talking" (giftwrap optonal). Aaaaah!