CHRISTMAS lurks unavoidably over the horizon. At home the decorations are up.

The other day I stood still for a moment too long and found myself wreathed in tinsel. I moved just before a bauble could be dangled from my ear.

My wife and home-from-uni daughter have filled most of the available space with ornaments, sparkled things and decorations.

The non-dropping tree is in situ, an operation which caused the shedding on to the floor of a quantity of immovable needles. Decorations and lights are strung around the branches, and only a grump would notice that the tree is standing in front of the hi-fi.

All that’s missing so far are the cards. We’ve had a few, sent a few too, but too few to mention. The postman won’t be putting his back out this year. The price of stamps and the rise of email seem to be putting the Christmas card on notice.

To date this year, we have also had one electronic ‘card’, which was diverting in its way, but difficult to string on to the wall.

The arrival of Christmas seems to take months, from the first indecently early mention some time late in the summer.

For a while it is nothing more than a worrying rumour someone is spreading.

Perhaps if you look away nothing will happen this year. But no, here it is again, a headlong rush of buying stuff and eating stuff, with alcoholic lubrication along the way too (well, there have to be compensations).

I admit to having mixed feelings about the whole soon-gone affair.

I dislike the long, wearisome build up and the stupid glitzy adverts on the television, every other one seemingly for perfume whose expense is mostly explained by the ever more elaborate adverts.

There’s a parable about pointless cost in there somewhere.

But I enjoy Christmas once it arrives, even if it is only a couple of days off work. When you have seen and survived a few, Christmases past line up behind you, colouring the present in surprising ways.

Childhood memories of waking to feel the weight of a stocking at the end of the bed mix with later thoughts of staggering around late at toe-stubbing night, leaving stockings on the beds of our three.

Our eldest, now a 25-year-old teacher, remembers seeing his un-Santa-like father sneaking in with a stocking late at night.

But he seems to have got over the shock.

Then there was the time before children, when the turkey was bought and defrosting, and the oven gave up the gassy ghost on Christmas morning.

That was one useless bird, until we went round the corner to spend the day with friends, one vegetarian, the other not. The meat eater was very pleased with the bonus turkey.

Earlier back in time, when I was about eight, we moved from Bristol to south of Manchester, right before Christmas, all presents wrapped for the journey. As I recall, we hadn’t even unpacked in time for the big day and more or less camped in the new house, which lay just beyond the bend in a barely finished cul-de-sac.

Some Christmas traditions are lovely, and last year we went to the last carol concert by the Chapter House Choir in its original home in the Minster. This year the concerts are in the main body of the Minster, which seems a shame, but there you go. For this year’s choral entertainment I went last night to see my wife’s choir sing in Guildhall. This column was written before the event, but may I say what a fine evening it was.

As for the religious aspect of Christmas, even an atheist can enjoy a spot of seasonal thoughtfulness.

My favourite religious-themed thought this year is brought to your attention thanks to the fruitcake right-wing US shock-jock, Rush Limbaugh. The conservative radio host has accused Pope Francis of being a Marxist, because of his papal observation that increased wealth did not trickle down to the poor. Sounds like the purest common sense to me, and you can’t always say that with popes.

As for the festive rest, have a happy one.