I can hardly wait to watch The Great Escape, 22 Carry On Films and assorted sickly, sentimental American films with Santa and Dwarves in them.
I used to get pissed out of my head at Christmas but can't do it any more. (I get ill long before I get intoxicated, and shitting through the eye of a needle is not my idea of fun.)
I just have childhood memories of Hornby Dublo boxes with their distinctive smell. But you know what, being a kid is like being a cat or a dog. You have no agency, and your happiness depends almost entirely on whether you have a good home or not. I was lucky, but I always think of those who were not - and are not. It must be pretty shit at Christmas if you're a kid in a cruel or abusive home.
Ah, well. It's just me and the missus. We won't be having turkey as I hate it. But we will be having a fucking good scran, and I have a bottle of 20-year-old port to open and drink with some nice cheese and biscuits. It could be a lot worse.