The turkey has been baked and the mince pies have been plucked. Stretching ahead of me is week after week of endless ... nothingness. Time to sit back and investigate the splendid presents I received and think seriously about new year resolutions.
After what seems like buckets-full of dropped hints, Santa finally came up with the goods and delivered a selfie-stick. The only problem seems to be that he has delayed things so long that old-age has presented me with a tremor, which when multiplied by the laws of physics and the length of the said stick, means that the camera swings around like a drunken albatross, blurring every effort to capture my true likeness. My conclusion is that selfie-sticks are for the young.
Not that I blame Santa, who surely suffered enough whilst delivering one of my other presents - the gigantic "Lost England" by Philip Davies (which surely must take the prize as one of the heaviest books published in 2016). His badly sprained back is a small price to pay for delivering this excellent volume, a full review of which I will provide in due course (if you still need it, Georgina).
As far as resolutions are concerned, I intend to press on with the resolutions I put in place last year - to be more disorganised, more meaningless and less structured. I think I have done quite well in meeting these fine objectives over the last twelve months, but there is always room for improvement - so watch this space.
I would like to finish by hoping that the year ahead brings us all peace and prosperity, but I seem to recall wishing the same things last year ... and look where that got us! Thus as 2017 appears over the horizon, I raise a glass and wish one and all, "survival".