There's no point complaining. This is now an established fact of life in the West. Christmas is a season that lasts a good two months. Everyone says they hate it, but they can't really or they'd put a stop to it, wouldn't they? Or are the commercial powers that rule us beyond the reach of popular appeal?
Going down Oldham high street yesterday I noticed the big, old Christmas crib is in place.
And the Post Office has launched its Christmas stamps. The Church of England- which used to be so mellow but is now increasingly evangelical and shrill (I'm so glad I quit when I did)- was complaining at an official level about there being no images of the baby Jesus.
As if thrusting religious images under people's noses would somehow make them more spiritual.
A couple on TV were complaining, in the context of the rise in interest rates, how Christmas was putting a huge strain on their finances. "So don't spend as much!" I yelled at the screen.
Christmas isn't compulsory. When we were Witches we celebrated the Solstice and treated Christmas Day as if it was any old week day. It's tough- I'm not sure I'd recommend it- but shut you eyes and hold your arms tight by your side and when the Gadarene rush has gone by, in its haze of Johnny Mathis and Jonah Louis, you'll still be standing.
Christmas made me happy once; I was four at the time. Since then it's always been a disappointment or worse.