"Do."

It's the office xmas party tonight. Given my general curmodgeonness at this time of year, I always find the forced jollity and unacustomed camaraderie a strain. It's amazing how much you talk about work while you're, you know, at work. And how hard it is to have some other kind of conversation.

I only tend to go now and then. This is only the second I've been to since I worked here.

A lot of you have written to ask what it is that I've got against Christmas. It's hard to explain without sounding too maudlin. Suffice it to say, there was always a bit of an atmosphere in our house at this time of year. Xmas morning usually dawned to the worst kind of emotional blackmail family crisis, and it was after a particularly fraught Boxing Day incident that I made a snap decision to leave home (and school, in the middle of my 'A' levels). So that affected the rest of my life - in a variety of ways, good and bad.

You should grow up and leave that stuff behind, but I'm kind of conditioned to avoid occasions which feature forced jollity. I can't just switch it on and off like a tap, I'm just not built that way. And I think a lot of people agree with me: it's not a question of being able to stick a piece of tinsel on your head and everything's right with the world. But whereas most people go along with the thing for a peaceful life, I'm more stubborn. No matter how many xmas cards you send me, I don't send them out. Hallmark (or whoever) can go without my pennies.

A few years ago, I thought my kids might be missing out on the traditional English Xmas morning, because we tend to be in France (at the in-laws) and they do things differently over there. Instead of opening the presents on Xmas morning, they do it on Christmas Eve, which is when we eat the big meal. Christmas day is a real anti-climax, which is something I've come to expect anyway. And Boxing Day doesn't exist.

So, in my confused state, I thought it was wrong that my kids weren't getting the excitement of a Xmas morning stocking and presents under the tree, the way we always did it, but who am I kidding? In France, there's a better chance of snow, a grandad and neighbours prepared to dress up as Santa and scare the kids shitless, and pate de Foie gras, which I'd happily eat every day, including Xmas day. With all that going on, hopefully they won't remember their dad struggling not to look miserable. In France, I can actually take a little bit of a back seat, let the grandparents make the running, and luckily my mood doesn't drag everybody down with it. I'm ignored, which is a blessing. And being ignored, I find it matters less and less, and one of these days I might actually start enjoying it.