WITH any luck Christmas will arrive before I die, but it’s going to be close. There are three days to go, by my reckoning, and there are still 38 office parties and business celebrations to attend. This being the weekend it means I’m going to have to cram them all into Monday. I don’t know who invented the end-of-year office party, but he was a mere child in the face of the genius who dreamed up Christmas, thus bringing all the festivities to a sudden stop. There are New Year parties, of course, but they are purely domestic affairs and do not carry the potential for pain of an office…

I AM not allowed in the laundry. Normally this would suit me very well. There are all kinds of good reasons for not entering a laundry, most of them to do with laundering things. There have been times when my wife has laid traps with the specific aim of getting me into the laundry and its odious contents, such as brooms and scrubbing brushes, cleaning equipment and — worst of all — washing machines. Now I’m not allowed in there. Is this some kind of double bluff? I don’t think so. I have worked it out. It’s where she’s hiding my Christmas present. This is good. This is great! First,…

YOU know that feeling you get that you’re running round in circles? It’s not just a feeling! It’s the coriolis effect. The same thing that sends vines curling up trees and water swirling down plugholes. It came to me in the bath. It’s a relief, I can tell you. My wife says the reason my life is spiralling — clockwise — down the drain is because I’m a slob; but there is scientific evidence out there that it’s something to do with the earth spinning and with living in the southern hemisphere. My wife says I would still be spiralling into permanent slob-hood if I lived in the northern hemisphere,…

"TURN left!" “Where?” "There – well, you’ve gone past it now."  “Couldn’t you tell me sooner?” "Couldn’t you drive slower?" “I thought you wanted to get there today.” "It’s only 10am."   “I know that, but there’s a long way to go.”   "One hundred and fifty miles is a long way?" “It is the way you navigate.”   "Let’s not fight. We’re on holiday. Why are you turning round?" “I thought we had to turn left.”   "Forget it. We can take the next one." “Then why did you frighten me into braking, ramming my nose against the windscreen and the steering wheel into my chest, at the last one?”…

I AM a grandfather. A girl. Seven pounds. Length 51cm. I knew you’d ask. I want to know why babies get special treatment. How come it’s actually illegal to produce a packet of flour without its metric weight, but we keep producing babies in pounds and ounces with impunity? How come height is good enough for real people but babies have length? I suspect there is some kind of fraudulent notion in vogue that babies are more accurately stretched out if you lie them down than if you stand them up. My observation is that either way is wildly inaccurate. A 51cm baby could be 3m long when it uncoils.…