Shortest

It's that slightly awkward period between my birthday and Christmas. You would like to use the time to take stock, to reflect on the momentous event just gone and the wild celebrations to come. But instead you find yourself in a flurry of last minute shopping, cramming more food into the fridge than is healthy, either for the fridge or for yourself, and waking each night in a cold sweat wondering what gifts you have forgotten and who, in consequence, will be mortally offended and refuse to have any future association with you. Clearly, you know that is not the appropriate spirit with which to greet the festive season, but it is difficult to put these things in perspective: there is such a lot to organise, and, worse still, to actually do, so it is inevitable that the accumulative stress begins to weigh you down.

I need some sort of schedule to coordinate present wrapping and food preparation activities. In previous years I have made valiant efforts at writing out something of the sort, in particular a detailed minute-by-minute timetable for cooking the Christmas lunch. But as with the best laid plans, it tends to fall to pieces before it's barely got going, notably when some minor hiccup, such as losing the potato peeler, or even losing the potatoes, throws everything into a disarray from which it never recovers.

Today is the winter solstice: the shortest day. With the weather remaining dismally grey and wet, the day was particularly short. But at least things brighten up from tomorrow.