On Sunday night I was flicking through one of the cookery books I had bought for my daughter. It's a bit naughty, reading books you have bought for people, but I can never resist, it's a sort of bonus. As long as you keep them reasonably intact, and don't dribble gravy over the pages, they never know anyway. And I'm a big believer in the saying 'What the eye doesn't see, the heart doesn't grieve' – one of the few sayings of my grandmother which I understand. Unlike 'Little pitchers have big ears' which I still have difficulty with, or her own version of an old classic, 'Don't close the door after the donkey has gone'. Anyway, the book was Elizabeth David's Christmas and I found a lovely quote in it which made me giggle to myself for the rest of the night. You don't actually get many laughs in Mrs David's books, she was very serious about her art and wasn't about to joke about the serious business of cooking. But this is an exception. Mrs David was talking about bread sauce, which she said she would never make, but she did understand that for some people it was a Christmas tradition, like having sprouts. She went on to say that a friend of hers once overheard an old woman in Sardinia say 'Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without having a roasted cat'. My cats were already sulking because they had both been turfed out of the airing cupboard where they were nicely settled to ride out the deluge that was this past weekend. Every time I walked past them I couldn't help repeating out loud 'Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without a roasted cat', until they thought I was completely bonkers. I told my daughter about this (forgetting that she would then realise I had read the book) and we spent an entertaining ten minutes thinking up suitable stuffings. 'Sardine and trout with a soupcon of catmint' was one suggestion. 'Vole forcemeat with sage and onion'. 'Starling pate dipped in dried crushed cat food'. 'Mouse and bacon roll, simply wrap a suitably sized rodent in a piece of streaky bacon and secure with a cocktail stick'. It got worse, and soon we were laughing hysterically and the cats were staring at me with a quizzical look as if they had some idea my condition might be something to do with them. Now, before anyone reaches for the green ink and starts a 'disgusted of Quethiock' letter, I should firmly say that this is a joke. I wouldn't really roast a cat, not even the one which recently upchucked into my slippers. The upchucking was because I'd bought the wrong cat food again. Having had a week of gourmet 'mini fillets' as they were called, and loving every tiny mouthful, I had reverted to a cheaper brand and paid the price. Both cats had taken one sniff and stomped away in disgust, and revenge wasn't to be served cold. There's nothing like projectile vomiting onto furry mules to make you sit up and take notice. Especially if you're wearing them at the time.

Buying things on line is quick and easy. The problems come afterwards with the delivery. A man from the Royal Mail was on television on Saturday morning. At least I think he was from Royal Mail, I get a bit confused with all the different deliverers now. He was telling an interviewer that the problem nowadays was that people weren't in and packets had to be re-delivered. He's right, but it isn't actually a new situation which has suddenly appeared. Now a huge majority of women work, most householders are out when parcel deliveries arrive, whereas at one time the little woman was home all day slaving over a hot stove and could trip to the door wearing her frilly apron whenever a packet arrived. Gone are those days forever. Our man said the bosses were coming up with innovative plans all the time to cope with this, the main one being delivering in the evening. Hardly that innovative, a five-year-old child could have worked it out. One of our lovely postmen in my town has his own innovative idea. He delivers all the parcels first, so they get there before most people have gone to work. Then the rest of the mail is delivered later, which is great. Who wants bills delivered at the crack of dawn? My son worked as a postman for a time, and we were regaled with stories of his brushes with death on a daily basis, fighting off vicious dogs, the odd snarling cat and on more than one occasion the vicious snarling inhabitants of the less that salubrious areas he had to deliver to. Plus his ever-growing count of postman-unfriendly letter boxes which given half the chance would neatly amputate his fingers. He also gained a loyal fan base of little old ladies who waited behind the door for his arrival just for a chat, probably the only friendly chat they had each day. He had to refuse numerous cups of tea, or, he said, he'd never have finished his rounds. One old dear used to lay in wait for him with various foodstuffs, much of it well past its sell-by date, and once at Christmas a home-made fruit- cake which, he realised when he looked at it, seemed to have been made with baked beans rather than sultanas. When he left, which was because some clever head office pen-pusher doubled the length of the round making it impossible to finish, he felt sad that the old dear would be waiting with her elderly pork pies and baked bean cakes in vain. What I did learn was the extraordinary notes people who were expecting a parcel would leave. Such as 'Please put package in dustbin with red lid', presumably by someone who knew their collection day. Or 'Could you please put parcel round the back in the big green bush with pricks on it'. Which he took to mean holly! His favourite was an instruction to push a parcel through the cat flap 'but mind the dog'. He said that by the subsequent sound of ripping paper it was clear the dog wasn't minding the parcel. I'm afraid I've been guilty of putting complicated notes out, instructing poor postmen to hide parcel in shed, lock shed up and put key through letter box. This past week I've had three non-deliveries because I was out. Two I didn't mind, I collected one from the sorting office, the other from the post office. The third was from a firm in the East Midlands who left an unintelligible set of instructions which included having me writing a note on 'letter headed paper', which I don't have, giving instructions as to where I wanted the parcel left and signing it. What should I do with this note? They didn't really explain. I eventually got through to the depot and they traced my parcel to Exeter and we eventually settled a delivery day when someone would be in and if I rang early they could tell me the progress my parcel would be making towards Cornwall. Best for delivery is Amazon, which somehow manages to get books to the door within a day or so, often delivered at night, so no need for complicated messages.

Finally: What do I say about those miserable killjoys who are trying to ruin Christmas present and future? The ones who want to stop nativity plays, anything remotely religious about the festive season, ban carols and are frightening firms into not putting up decorations because they might offend people with different religious beliefs. Bah, humbug is what I'd say. Then I'd lock them in a room for the whole Christmas holiday with nothing more to eat than six packets of those horrid sickly dates and a few packs of supermarket's own brand mince pies and nothing to drink but a bottle of Creme de Menthe and a particularly sickly chocolate liqueur while playing 'I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus' on a loop system at full volume. It might not cure their political correct Yuletide leanings but at least they'd have a jolly good reason not to be cheerful.