There's a sense of menace hanging over the household at the moment...yes, the annual Christmas card list needs to be written.
And then cards sent. Lost addresses found. A small sackful of gold given to the Royal Mail so they can promptly lose everything somewhere in a postbox near Abingdon. Just call me Scrooge - I hate the whole tedious process.
For a start I can't actually write with a pen any more - I've spent far too long either writing shorthand or using a computer that my handwriting has degenerated into some sort of illegible spider scrawl, as I can't write fast enough to keep up with what I'm thinking. I suppose I could type stuff out, but then that turns into a round robin, and I'm not going to give Simon Hoggart any more free material for books.
Grrr. I could send e-cards, but they're no use if, like most of my recipients, you're not on email. And they're a bit tacky anyway (the cards, not the elderly relatives).
And you want to know the worst bit? I really really love getting mail of any sort, including Christmas cards. I'm a complete hypocrite - the arrival of the postman is the highlight of my day, and if I actually bothered to put pen to paper more often than the once-a-year-forced-exercise above I'd certainly get far more letters. I've only myself to blame.