It’s that time of year again.
I’m on auto-pilot. I’m launching into a familiar routine of buying presents, arranging who I’m going to stay with, and the parties I’ll be going to. Sadly as I get older, wild soirees are becoming less of a feature of the festive season. There are exceptions – my gatecrashing of a New Years Eve houseparty last year after perhaps one too many glasses of Sauvignon Blanc at an earlier formal do, was a welcome return to youthful irresponsibility.
Already I digress. What I want to say is that occasionally, during this orgy of consumerism and increasingly forced bonhomie, I stop to think of what it’s all about. When I do that I am struck at how alien our present society can sometimes be to even those like me, who grew up in the third quarter of the twentieth century.