As much as I'm no fan of the commercialisation of the festivities, I can't deny that I still find it a special time. I love planning the Christmas dinner, I revel in wrapping others' presents and imagining their delight on opening them, and receiving cards from family and friends old and new is always a particular pleasure.
But for so long as I can remember, the most magical moment for me is when the Christmas tree is dressed, the lights are switched on for the first time, and a subtle hint of pine fills the house.
That's when my Christmas starts - and it doesn't end until twelfth night, when the tree is the last thing to be taken down.
This year, I was unwell for the entire Christmas period, right through to New Year. Did it diminish my enjoyment? Well, possibly a little. It would have been nice to have some Christmas dinner, to play some silly games, and to be rather more jolly and festive than I actually managed to be.
But the tree was perhaps the best, most pretty, sparkling tree I've ever had. It was magnificent. It made me smile every time I entered the living room. And that, quite simply, meant that everything was just fine.
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