There was a time when I thought a "round robin" was just a fat festive bird.

In my mind's eye I pictured a rotund little ball of feathers perched precariously on a spindly branch, like a darts player balancing on a lolly stick.

But now I know the truth.

Now I know that these annual visitors are not cheery, cherubic creatures at all.

They are slim, sly, divisive animals that slink through your letterbox sometime in December and leave you spitting venom until at least early June.

"Dear all," they inevitably begin, "just a quick note to let you know what has been happening in the Boring-For-Britain household this year...".

There then follows eight pages - both sides covered with spidery scrawl, no bothersome things like grammar included to break the flow - of "news" from a family you vaguely remember meeting on a dreadful camping holiday in Cornwall six years ago.

They were either the posh ones with the implausible noses, or the ginger ones with the unpleasant dog.

Either way you only socialised with them because it wouldn't stop raining and you had forgotten to pack the Travel Scrabble.

Within seconds of twanging the last guide rope and lobbing the chemical loo back on the roof rack, you had completely erased them from your memory.

But they, for reasons known only to themselves and their over-worked family therapist, had neatly stored away your name, address and inside leg measurement for future reference. If they were absolutely honest with themselves they would probably admit that they don't remember you either - you may have had a red anorak but they can't be sure - but still they include you in their annual round robin Christmas round-up.

I barely have sufficient festive cheer to write Happy Xmas on the flimsy cards (79p per kilo at Poundstretcher) I send out every year, never mind waxing lyrical about the minutiae of my life.

Anyway, why would Dawn and Dave from Devon who we met in Majorca 11 years ago give two hoots about my six-year-old's new and extensive knowledge of words that rhyme with "bum" and the 20-month-old's habit of sitting on whichever purring cushion happens to be lounging on the sofa.

And it's not just the boring round robins I can't stand.

The supposedly interesting "we've moved to New York, our youngest has won the Pulitzer and Gerald is thinking of becoming a woman" variety drive me crazy too.

I read one a couple of years ago that was so insufferably smug (the writer even gave a rundown of his family's favourite books of the year and why the rest of us plebs should put down our Spot The Dog annuals immediately and read them instead) that I had to read it 23 times just to make sure it was as ironically-challenged as I first thought.

In his new book, The Cat That Could Open The Fridge, national newspaper columnist Simon Hoggart shares extracts of the funniest round robin letters he has received down the years.

My own book of hilarious round robin excerpts, called Whatever You Do, Don't Give Them Our Real Address, is currently at the printers and should be on the shelves for next Christmas.

I call it a book, but it is actually more of a pamphlet.

Come to think of it, pamphlet is probably over-egging it a little. It's really just eight pages of spidery scrawl - both sides of course - which I will be sending out to everyone I have ever come into contact with.

You can look forward to receiving your copy in due course.

Updated: 11:22 Monday, December 20, 2004