It’s that time of year again: the minivan flower-sellers are out, Clinton’s shop-fronts glisten, red-glittered and teddy-beared, on the high street and you can’t buy your M&S lunch without having to skirt the mountain of champagne bottles in the walkway (how very middle-class, daaarling).
Oh yes, what a wonderfully lovey-dovey, cuddly-wuddly time of year, a chance to snuggle down with a glass of plonk in front of a roaring gas fire and Love Actually. An opportunity to spend some quality time with your partner/spouse/family member/dog/cat/Xbox/that-bloke-from-Take-That’s discarded fag butt you traded your Discman for, back in 1994.
