Morning:
8°c
This week, amid the shopping, we should never forget that we are celebrating a major landmark in faith: the sudden, miraculous arrival of a new figure destined to galvanise our religion. Betrayed and crucified in his lifetime, he surely now represents the unquestioned cornerstone of everything all right-thinking people believe.
But enough of Tony Blair. What about Christmas? I happen to be a Catholic myself - lapsed - and I know everyone in our Church will at this special time exercise Christian forgiveness towards our newest, sinfullest celebrity recruit. OK, then, most of us. Well, some of us, perhaps. What, nobody at all?
I may believe in God but I confess that I never used to believe in Christmas. I liked the run-up but every year, the contrast between expectation and reality grew more painful. Every year the exchange of totally unwanted gifts depressed me more.
Most years I usually managed to get my employers to send me somewhere warm, non-Christian and comparatively harmonious - Pakistan, say, or tsunami-hit Sri Lanka - for at least part of the festive season.
Now, I have decided to surrender to Christmas, not fight it. I have finally realised that there is no point in working: the entire nation, for all its supposed post- Thatcher lean'n'mean makeover, is essentially on holiday for the next fortnight, and a good thing, too. Last year I had rather a nice week on the sofa in front of an open fire, behind a series of saved-up novels, and adjacent to a table holding large quantities of chocolate. I managed to agree mutual non-worthless-tat-giving pacts with all my family and friends.
Above all, no one around me cooked - the greatest source of Christmas stress. We had our Christmas dinner in a restaurant, which being a public place made it much harder to claw pieces out of each other and throw things.
Just as with Mr Blair, my new belief in Christmas is essentially personal - and just like Mr Blair, I really don't like talking about it, except all the time. I have my own holy milestones that signal to me that the magical season has truly arrived, such as the annual re-run of The Great Escape.
This landmark event, usually on UK Gold Men & Motors Extra, was this year promoted to BBC2, a heartening sign of the revival of tradition in our national life.
For despite the decline of religion, Christmas TV remains a strenuous test of faith for us all: can Noel Edmonds truly be said to "exist?" Are Ant and Dec merely outdated shibboleths? How can any thinking person accept the "literal truth" of Dick van Dyke's Cockney accent in Mary Poppins?
Time was I would struggle with issues like these but this is no week for cynicism. Tomorrow, at least, the chaps in Stalag Luft V will be beyond the wire, and the hills will be alive with the sound of music. Happy Christmas.
