It used to be fashionable to wail about the commercialisation of Christmas. “There’s too much Christmas!” people would scream in August, when the first Christmas departments would open in the London stores, at least two months before Hallowe’en. It’s not about Baby Jesus any more, they would say. It’s about cheap plastic rubbish and mindless consumption and drugging children with sweets and bad TV and it’s all terribly wrong and I am disgusted. Et cetera. I may have written such pieces myself: Christmas is coming, like a wrecking ball, and it will take everything good with it. I can’t remember.
Now I think this is snobbery — having a child does change you, and nothing lights a five-year-old’s face from within like Christmas — and pseudo-intellectualism, for…
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