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WHEN I was a child, like Wizzard, I wished that it could be Christmas every day. Now that I'm a fullgrown man, way past twenty- one, I realise that the lure of a stocking full of presents every morning isn't quite as wondrous as the lure of a presence filling stockings plus, mince pies and brandy butter every day would have me looking like Rick Waller before the end of next week.
Oh, my wife said that to be technically accurate the word "more" should have been inserted in the last sentence somewhere between "looking" and "like". I don't mess with my wife. She's bigger than me.
Jollity aside, this Friday - for one day only - I have dusted down the false beard, the moth-eaten red suit and a couple of remote- controlled reindeer in order to bring you four belated Christmas presents. But, don't worry: you won't be breathlessly tearing...