Doing the fat bloke's work for him

The preparations for Xmas are always a trial. For the most part my preparations consist of two or three weeks' worth of worrying about other people's preparations. I love giving people presents. I like watching people's faces as they open presents. If Xmas were just about giving people some presents, having a cup of tea and a chip butty I'd be quite OK about it.

But it never is, is it? There's always the pressure of creating some miracle of the culinary arts, which I have to admit straight up I could never manage myself. It's a nice meal to be offered, but please don't stress yourself out in the doing of it. Please. I'll be happy with very nearly anything you'd be likely to offer, honestly.

And I can't be doing with all that goodwill to all men crap. I've never been good at handling hypocrisy and it's a bit late in the year to expect it of me.

But I love the giving people presents bit. At this time of year I start fretting terribly that I've not got all the presents. I'm already convinced that I've missed somebody. Or somebodies. The Christmas Cupboard has been being fed throughout the year with whatever caught my eye, or was on sale, or just turned up on the doorstep. There should be enough but I'm not convinced. I'll have a last-minute panic over the next couple of days. Then, on Xmas Eve, I'll start doing the wrapping up and I'll wonder: where did all this stuff come from? Invariably there's more than enough for everyone with a little spare left to seed next year's Christmas Cupboard. And inevitably there'll need to be a bit of creative thinking along the way: who would be thrilled to receive a pair of nutcrackers in the shape of King Leopold I of Belgium? And yet... And yet...

I'll be hitting the shops tomorrow lunchtime.