The tree's up and this year there is no fear of it toppling over and scaring the cat. It is securely wedged into the bay window, tastefully adorned with the expensive decorations that I have accumulated over more affluent seasons. My 1.99 lights, purchased from Poundstretcher well over a decade ago have finally given up the ghost. I set Jack the task of individually trying each bulb in the hope of finding the rogue one which had brought the rest out on strike. He'd got up to bulb no. 6 by the time I left for work this morning. He appears to have finished at bulb no.7 approximately 2 seconds after I drove up the road and spent the rest of the day on his Playstation.

Having a tree up any time before Christmas Eve is pretty organised for me. I have even got so far as fetching the assorted boxes of left-over cards from previous years out of storage. I haven't yet managed to muster up the enthusiasm to write any of them or even look out my address book but it's a step closer than I got last year. If I repeat the pattern, eventually I'll be able to send vintage cards ( anything other than an e-card will soon seem quaint) and re-establish my image as a style guru ( gratuitous use of the letters "r" and "e" there but they are common enough so may go unnoticed).

One thing I have discovered this year is a sudden and unnatural desire to hog a karaoke mic. I've got to 34 and managed to avoid them thus far, despising them as props for the hopelessly deluded and serial exhibitionists. But after Saturday night's performance I am seriously worried as to which set I fall into, I suspect borderline delusional exhibitionist. In my defence I have always been a music lover and wrenching the mic from the grip of a group of tipsy teenagers intent on making Bohemian Rhapsody sound like "Allouette" was almost an act of compassion. I didn't then have to savage a couple of Abba tracks and American Pie ( it was the Madonna version, I'd have much prefered the original classic). Thankfully I was rescued from ultimate humiliation just as Bucks Fizz was about to play. I'd have been sure to have leapt onto a table and subjected a hushed and horrified room to a rendering of the old Eurovision favourite, complete with cheekily whipped-off skirt action had the mini-bus not been about to depart.

I will now carefully inspect my remaining invitations and discard any with the faintest possibility of corny entertainment, or at least resolve to drive on those occasions that cannot be avoided. But just in case, I shall now away to my bedroom. Those full-length mirrors might not be so bad after all. Now all I need find is my hairbrush and Monster Tracks '84 album. Practice! Practice! Practice!