There is a gender-specific stereotypical myth out there that men tend to leave their Christmas shopping until the last possible moment. I, for one, am offended by such obvious slander. I don't like the fact that such comments make us men look like ill-planned, uncaring, unthoughtful morons.
If she promises to make me some home-made boozy Christmas gifts then I think I'll get her an Orgasmatron; apparently they're good for headaches.
Trouble is that in order to be with 'Er Indoors I am a Muslim. It's all to do with the paperwork which puts obstacles in the path of mixed marriages, and I'm talking about nationalities rather than gender. So Idul Fitri, the end of Ramadan, is the big tribal get-together in Jakartass Towers.
However, there is still that part of me that will always be an Englishman, with ghosts of Christmases past. I've sent about 50 home-made cards by email and, in return, there is a card delivered by the postman sitting, rather forlornly I must admit, on a book shelf.
There are snacks, the remains of some duty-free bourbon, some special flavour instant noodles in the larder and a bottle of Ribena for the cold evenings. Christmassy candles are primed; there's usually a power cut or two at this time of the year.
So excitement mounts.
Our Kid is tracking Santa Claus with the aid of Ringo Starr who is Santa's little helper because he's a personal friend of Santa Claus and he has been ... for many years.
It's just a pity that Santa scares children.
When we are born, Santa needs to know who we are and where we live. Because we all use so many different languages and have different names it gets really confusing for poor old Santa Claus.
Just before the Stork delivers us, all of Santa's little helpers - like the elves, pixies, goblins and fairies - gather round and select a name for us and that's the name Santa remembers.
So, until sanity returns, you may call me Tumbleflump Kissy-Tummy.
