The first Christmas card arrived today, tucked into the first Christmas present and, no, I haven't opened it yet ...
Although I am ashamed to say that a BOGOF purchase of mincepies has already disappeared.
And there wasn't a single one left when I guiltily settled down to watch a preview of the TV adaptation of The Making of a Marchioness which I refuse to call The Making of a Lady.
(A Christmas act of goodwill so I won't be inflicting it on teenage boys come Boxing Day teatime.)
Liberties have been taken with the original and, if you've read the book by Frances Hodgson Burnett,  you won't recognise heroine Emily Fox Seton who is slender and 20 instead of 34 with big feet and good hips. And, sadly, liberties have also been taken with her poor, but cheerful lodgings which were so delightful in the book ... no Turkey-red cotton chairs or cheap Liberty cushions or twopenny halfpenny art china.
No, Emily's charming lodgings have been downgraded to standard-issue ITV garret. Presumably because the subtleties of Turkey-red cotton are lost on viewers who can't pronounce Marchioness after two glasses of Baileys and mum's sherry trifle.
I'll let them off for whizzing through part one of the book, even though that's the part I liked best, because the story is structurally very peculiar, I have to admit.
But really ... Linus Roache isn't my idea of a dull, prosaic 54-year-old marquis. (Standard-issue Mr Darcy moment when he takes off his nightshirt.)
He can put his slippers under my fourposter bed any time he likes.
Still ... I did enjoy it. Even without the mince pies.
Fortunately, I only remembered my hidden stash of blackberry whisky once it was over.