bah humbug

Twinkle twinkle little star,

Bloody presents can't be far,

Twinkle twinkle little star,

Wonder where the **** they are

Every Christmas, as much as I've sworn the years before (upon deadly oath to myself) that I just won't do it again, I end up in that hell, that place that God forgot: Oxford Street, London, December 24th, noon. Hell.

A veritable sauna, thick with heads on a winters day. I sigh as I look at the procession of lips that mirror mine - frozen in a semi-permanent fear-stricken grimace - will we all get it done by 5pm?

Will God banish me to his furthest place for forgetting ancient Aunt Alice's scented bags? And what exactly does she do with those bags anyway stick them under her pillow? Eat them? Sell them?

12.25pm. The unrelenting serenade of Christmas: dancing plastic budgies clatter, talking Santas chatter, wiggly wonder worms wriggle, wrapped presents rattle. Ker-ching! Ker-ching! Christmas cover songs, Ken's buses, singing fish and mobile phones battle with the frost for space in the air.

(And the smell of cinnamon candy combined with McDonalds is just divine.)

Mistletoe, pushchairs, breath, holly, trees, crackers, tinsel, must get this, pies, must get that, meat, babies, stuffing, glitter, shiny stuff, shiny noses. Ker-ching!

My Christmas shopping list

- Big (ish) present for my new boyfriend

- Plates for Mum

- Good book for Dad

- Scarf or David Beckham book for brother

- Present for 13-year old sister (however, the thing is, she might be younger than me but this doesn't stop her from being infinitely cooler, she has posh highlights and manicured nails you wouldn't believe.)

- Present for my other sister, Laura? Nah! Last time she got me a present was well, I don't think she ever has! We have a you don't buy me and I won't buy you pact - somehow our relationship missed the spirit of Christmas boat and it never came back.

Santa, my feet hurt! Bah!

Push. Shove. Heavens above. Tring-a-ling-a-ling. But I do love the buzz, the adrenaline sizzling in the air, the bite on my cheeks. Oxford Street on Christmas Eve might be Bah, humbug! but I still love Christmas itself when else do you get to kiss someone you fancy under the pretext of a twig of mistletoe? When else can you feasibly (and almost guiltlessly) get drunk five times a week?

Even a hardened Christmas-shopping-agoraphobic like me can't resist the allure of opening goodies on a frosty morning by the fire. And the warm glow of Noel Edmonds Christmas Party (Isn't it like you're a part of his extended family?) It's nice to see all the family faces once a year, that's Uncle Jon and Auntie What's her Face, Grand-dad and his new girlfriend (number three), Betsy their errant Labrador, Mum, Dad, sisters, brother, Percy the next-door loner. I dig Christmas.

Pine needles in your feet. Sensitive teeth from pennies in the pudding (and how come I always get the six-pence and not the two-quid coin?) Unruly fairy lights. Too many Quality Streets. The fire reflected on your familys faces. Big bellies. I love Christmas.

Every family has their Christmas rituals (we wish some were more forgotten than ritualised). But there's something quite heartening in my family ritual of Adverbs, Charades and Granny falling asleep after a fair filling of port - maybe it's me but sometimes I get a bit lost in the super-highway of change, the modern way of flux please don't let Christmas ever change (all is forgiven, minus the Oxford Street shopping experience, December 24th, noon).