Whoops. November seems to have scooted past and, somehow, here we are on the threshold of Christmas. Which makes this column tricky to write, because it’s already beginning to read like a Christmas Card Letter – you know the things I mean? Those annual, computer-generated (used to be photocopied), two close-packed sides of A4, addressed to Dear All, invariably beginning ‘Well, another year has gone by…’ and then detailing all the glittering achievements of each and every family member.

Call me misanthropic, but I can’t stand these letters. Yes, I know they’re invaluable for disseminating news. Yes, I make honourable exception for those of my friends who actually put good jokes in their letters (rare, but it makes all the difference). Maybe my jaundiced response to the rest is just a forgivable allergy (brought on by years of junk mail) to all circulars. There’s something about the very phrase ‘Dear all’ which, apart from surely being an oxymoron, is instantly guaranteed to disengage the interest of any reader, don't you think?

More likely, however, all this reveals a nasty misanthropic streak in my nature. Instead of rejoicing in good old Kevin’s further promotion to Sales Director, and the panoramic views from all five en-suite bedrooms in the new pad in Marbella, (smeary, techno-coloured snapshot frequently scanned into letter at this point) I find myself longing – just longing – to read that young Damien has been banged up for crack smuggling, while Lucinda recently set fire to her convent school.

In fact, one year I may just write my own letter. Being unblessed by offspring, I need not be constrained by fact – I shall invent a brood of monsters. Failing every public examination (assuming it is still possible to fail exams in these democratic times) will be only the start of their year’s adventures. I think one should aim for a little topicality. The gap-year career in Paris of elder daughter Sarah (now known as Sexy Sukey) may have suffered a little blip after the arrest of her boss, but we’re confident she’ll soon find her feet again. And we’re sure everyone will be as delighted as us to know we’ve had three postcards recently from Ali in Guantanamo Bay (schoolfriends will remember him as Jonathan? we were so proud when he won the Scripture Prize)… As for my husband, well, I think I’ll take this opportunity to tell the whole world that the photograph of him in the News of the World was – of course – a silly misunderstanding. Those girls were just getting changed into their swimming costumes, and he thought the rolled up tenner was full of Beecham’s Powder, which was exactly what he needed with his nasty cold…

Come on, fellow schadenfreudians (if that’s the word), wouldn’t you be hugely cheered by a letter like this in the midst of the wrapping paper and mince pie scrum?

But before keen Round-(Xmas)-Robin senders and receivers chuck a brick through my window, I confess I annually commit a much worse taste crime. I design my own Christmas card. 'Fraid so. What’s more it’s awash with cutesy pictures of my husband, my dogs, snow… And if I could only operate the technology, I’d scan it in here and now. Fortunately, I can’t, so you’re saved from having to make polite gargling noises about how charming and…..um, original it is.

Must go. Gotta send them all off. All best for the festivities,
Kate




  posted by Kate @ 11:38:46 AM