In some ways I miss the Christmas period in England, the way everything would grind to a halt during the afternoon of the 24th and not resume anything approaching normal service until halfway through January. That enforced secluded torpor, reliant on the three TV channels or radio for entertainment and relief doesn't exist here. There's no specific Christmas TV here as far as I can tell, which is surprising since I recall all those Perry Como and Dean Martin Christmas specials they used to show on the BBC in the middle of September when I was a lad. Maybe the hostesses on Deal or No Deal wore sexy Santa outfits and the local TV weather guy did wear a chunky green and red sweater but there are no equivalent to those increasingly bloated but mandatory multi-episode Only Fools and Horses or gloomy hour-long Eastenders and Emmerdale episodes.

The two week stretch of hallucinatory boredom that descended had an inevitable spiritual feel to it, like a monastic retreat from the world, albeit with booze and leftover turkey. I'd always find myself listening to Choral Evensong on radio three, sitting alone as the room darkened, feeling on the verge of some new awakening. Then I'd go to the pub and get drunk and talk rubbish and fail to get even a desultory snog from lush local beauties who are probably grannies now and fall over in the snow and go home and fall asleep listening to the Butthole Surfers. Such was the Yules of our youth in England, dear children.