OPINION: I'm dreaming of an empty mailbox ...

LAURA FRANKLIN
A aaaargh! Must ... resist ... Must ... not ... write ... about ... Christmas ... oh what the heck. I can't fight it.
The hypnotic blinky lights have got me.
Those mind-sapping songs have turned me into a mince-pie-baking, tinsel-covered Stepford Wife in a frilly apron decorated with prancing reindeer and snowflakes. Fa la la la la ...
Any minute now I'll begin spraying pinecones with gold paint and hunting in the undergrowth for mistletoe - if that's where you find it. Does it look anything like dandelion? I really tried to stay off the whole subject of Christmas because I know it's doing your head in. Mine too. I feel like my frontal cortex is fogged with a thick coating of artificial snow.
But the final straw - or, if you like, blasted pine needle - was the unrelenting bombardment of Santa's evil propaganda in my mailbox this week.
Somewhere at the North Pole there is a Mass Communications Department filled with manipulative little elves who would put Chairman Mao to shame with their gift for hijacking the public consciousness.
On one particular day, I counted 19 pieces of Christmas-themed letterbox fodder. Nineteen! I don't think there I even have 19 people on my Christmas list. One of the catalogues listed 113 amazing discounted items I may wish to purchase this festive season. Another offered 278.
This is true. I counted. It was from a jeweller's - and the tally would have been worse if I hadn't reckoned each pair of earrings as one item.
Let's not get sidetracked here by wondering just how little I have going on in my life that I have time to carry out statistical analyses of Christmas catalogues.
The point is that this cornucopia of ridiculous dross is far and away more temptation than any normal person could possibly need.
One of the more modest fliers - advertising booze - listed a mere 33 items. That's still 33 decisions for your poor tired and carol-bedevilled brain: Do I need Viking beer? Have I a taste for Woodstock bourbon?
Would a drop of Veuve Clicquot go down nicely at $59.95? By my calculations (and I can show you the workings if you're interested), those 19 subversive little propaganda sheets presented me with a whopping total of 2346 pieces of stuff all vying for my Christmas dollar.
Two thousand, three hundred and forty six things. In one day.
There would be a fresh lot tomorrow.
And the worst thing is that, if you don't quickly consign these publications to the bin, if the thought crosses your mind "trees died for this, I might as well take a look", if you begin to flick through the bright and pretty pages ... suddenly it occurs to you that there are many items here you need.
Not that you needed them 10 minutes ago, mind. But once they're in front of you ... well ... Coffee cups, set of 6, $19.95.
You glance at the mug in your hand. Good heavens it's chipped. How awful. How shabby.
It really is time for replacements.
Hmmm. A juice extractor (which you will use approximately six times before deciding it's too much of a royal pain to clean and shoving it to the back of the cupboard under the sink), a George Foreman grill, and - at last! - a machine that makes waffles in the shape of penguins.
Why, a house just isn't a home without that stuff.
A projection television with a screen as big as a double duvet, a little robotic vacuum cleaner that beavers around the floors all by itself and - oh yeah, baby! - a stainless steel barbecue the size of a single-car garage, with six burners, a rotisserie, a flame tamer and an integral spice rack.
Need them now!
Not to mention an "extra long santa hat for added fun this festive season".
(Ah, so that's the secret. "Fun" is obviously proportional to distance between the head and the pompom. Must buy it. Only $1.99.) Once you give in to Christmas, it's enormously exciting.
Only one pamphlet in my letterbox this week broke the festive trend.
A sensible number advertising budgeting and financial advice.
Pfffft! Flipping junk mail.