In the course of a few hours today I heard the "Christmas" word no fewer than three times.
I mean, come on everyone, I love Christmas as much as, if not more than, anyone
else but I'm not sure I want to be thinking about it before the end of September. The sun, after all, is still shining - at least it is down here in Sunny Worthing. It was still warm enough not to wear a jacket or even a cardigan when we headed to town for
appointments at (i) the Memory Clinic (yes, we nearly forgot!) and (ii) the chiropodist. In short, it is far too sunny and far too warm to start talking about Christmas.
The first person to mention Christmas
was the nurse at our GP surgery, calculating the date twelve weeks hence when I will need to return for my next B12 injection. "December 15th!" she told me, scribbling the date on a label to be stuck in the relevant page of my diary, "Just in time for Christmas!"
How exciting, a festive jab!
The second person was a workman in the town centre whom I overheard explaining to a colleague where the Christmas lights will be plugged in to ensure that this year's municipal
Christmas tree can sparkle with the best of them. This is what vines of eavesdropping. It also means that someone, somewhere in the Town Hall is already issuing festive instructions. Santa, eat your heart out...
The third person was the receptionist in the dentist's who, taking my £3 in payment for 20 tiny brushes to clean in between my teeth, commented: "They look like Christmas trees, don't they?!" Hmmm, yes, they do actually now I come to think of
And this is the trouble. No sooner do you start hearing the Christmas word than it sort of wriggles its way into your head and lodges there like a troublesome song. You know the kind I mean, you hear
it on the radio and find yourself humming it all day, even though it's quite the most irritating tune ever composed. Most Christmas songs come into this category of course.
I do now have a confession to make.
I have already bought six Christmas presents. In my defence, they are tickets for our Jolly Girls' Outing to see Matthew Bourne's Red Shoes at Sadler's Wells and they needed to be booked before time ran out on me. This year Eleanor, the third eldest granddaughter,
having just turned Sweet Sixteen, becomes a Jolly Girl and will join my three Darling Daughters, her sister, her cousin and me for this annual jaunt which is our Christmas present to them all. Obviously I have to tag along, being (according to the Middle of
the Darling Daughters) the Ultimate Jolly Girl so I have to gift myself a Christmas present. I must remember to send myself a thank you card.
Maybe, just maybe, it's time to start Making Things For Christmas?
Should I think about updating the Christmas card list in a bid to ensure that the majority of our cards plop onto the correct door mats come December? Is it possible that, if I allow a little more time for thought, I might manage to be a good deal more imaginative
about the presents I purchase?
Oh dear, oh dear. I have mentioned the Christmas word sixteen times in one Daily Blog.
I should - probably - be ashamed of