The niggling actually starts before now; that sense that I really should've thought about Christmas and the presos for the rellos before Christmas was actually imminent.
I pretty much gave up buying gifts for friends - I mean, it sucked in a major way that as a singleton, I got to spend a bomb buying pressies for Bob, Bobette and their two ankle biters Bib and Bub when all I got in return was a plate of home-made, gone-soft biscuits with slightly burnt edges. (Don't get me started on the whole birthday present thing.) Not believing in Santa, I can't even leave them out with a glass of milk (and perhaps a dash of Tia Maria, always the perfect partner for cow juice) for him to tuck into as he wends his weary way in and out of chimneys and air conditioning ducts.
Then there's the tired routine of turning up at every Christmas gathering as the spare wheel. Trust me, everyone's a couple amongst my family and friends, except for the kids (and there's WAY more than a couple of them). It doesn't matter how ragged and tense, how bored or how boring a couple has become with each other over the years, Christmas has the effect of causing them to rally, to unconsciously re-weld the cosy bond that brought them together all those years ago and make me feel like the little match girl, freezing alone on the streets with only a box of matches to give her warmth. (Hmmm. Must remind myself that in Sydney's ugh-I-hate-hot-summers summer, houses DO burn really well.)
So ho, ho maybe I should become a ho and at least I'll be given something this Christmas, even if it's an STD.