Christmas cards

I HATE Christmas cards. They are pointless, and a pest. OK, send them to people you love who live far away - fair enough.

But for goodness sake, don't send them to me. It's not you, it's me. I can't tell you how my heart sinks when I see that cheery little red envelope on the doormat, and realise the process that is about to begin.

I will open the thoughtfully chosen, tasteful, amusing card. I will be touched by the gesture.

I will make a metal note to find out the address of the sender.

I will forget to do so for two weeks. During these two weeks, I will repeatedly remember, forget, and kick myself. The self-loathing will start to set in.

I will buy a very expensive card to make up for my rubbishness.

I will carry the card around with me for two days, battering and ruining it.

I will write an overly-long and jokey message to make up for the battering of the card.

I will get the address.

I will write the address on the envelope in a different colour biro from the name.

I will return the card to my bag for more battering, until I remember to buy a stamp.

Christmas morning: I will wake up and rummage blindly in my bag for painkillers to hush the hideous, screaming pain in my head. I will find the card. It will probably have someone's mobile number on it. The self-loathing, amplified by the hangover, will become unbearable.

Christmas lunchtime: My mother will discover me crispy and naked, covered in strips of bacon, surrounded by roast potatoes, behind the turkey in the oven.