It’s that time of year when the cards landing on the doormat compete for the title of most fatuous. Will it be a reindeer spouting an obscenity, or a painterly robin perched on a frosted gatepost in snowy landscapes? Might it be a sanitised cartoon of a coach and four outside a snow-encrusted inn, bright yellow lights glowing from within, a kind of Pickwickian fantasy of Victorian yuletide? Or will it be a trio of children around a scarfed snowman, or a Christmas tree, perhaps?

Most likely it will be a sclerotic Father Christmas, or a bright Santa (that’s with a silent ‘t’) as he’s now increasingly known, dominating the foreground or flying through the air on his sledge over a snowy landscape, even though it never snows any more. If your friends or loved ones really lack imagination you m

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