Get out the linen, Stilly. If the dribbly friend doesn't do the job, somebody else will; when wine, gravy and cranberry sauce are on the table, the virginity of the tablecloth is measurable in minutes.

Thank goodness, we left Thanksgiving in the rear-view mirror a month ago, so our digestions have time to recover before the Yuletide onslaught of goodies. Himself and I worked the church bazaar on Saturday, spending several hours in the presence of literally heaps of home baking. Oddly, I felt exactly zero interest in any of it; all I wanted was a cup of flipping tea! Even Anglican tea, typically strong enough to strip paint or the enamel off your teeth.

I can never get over the insatiable appetite of my dear neighbours for Santa-themed kitsch as the days shorten and the streets fill with snow. Much of it can best be described as butt-ugly, but that seems to be a feature, not a bug.

We have three weeks of Advent to get through before Himself starts nagging me about wreaths and ribbons. We will be on our own for Christmas dinner this year, so I hope to dodge the task of fitting a tree into the sitting room.

Is it too early for Bah, Humbug?