Over the past couple of weeks, I seem to have seen more Nativity re-enactments than there have been performances of The Mousetrap.

I've also attended a Christingle service in a freezing cold church; shivered and sung carols around a tree on the village green, where not even mulled wine could lift the temperature; warbled carols in a pub where the bar was closed for the duration, and even been to a Church of England midnight mass held - for parson shortage reasons - 120 minutes before the clock struck 12.

I have witnessed a politically-correct seasonal show, the sort that PC zealots inflict on a society growing tired of having to be careful not to offend minorities - minorities that for the most part want to do their own thing anyway.

I have watched a Christmas play, the sort the pretentious foist on their children rather than take them to a corny pantomime where on-stage cross-dressing is compulsory and everyone has a good laugh into the bargain.

I have seen a four-year-old grandson portray an elf in a stable in Bethlehem (how did an elf get there?); another of similar age give a creditable performance as Rudolph the reindeer in the story of a rookie quadruped called in to help Santo Claus when old red nose has the flu, and a third - an 11-year-old - surprise even this biased grandfather with his portrayal of Bugsy Malone.

On top of this, the red suit and whiskers have made several appearances for young and old alike.

Overdosed on carols, concerts and communal festive frolics? Not a bit of it.

Not everything has gone without incident this year. Friends and family members have died, leaving a gap at Christmas that is more like a chasm, and making me all too aware of my own mortality.

But these Yuletide events give us the opportunity to share losses and comfort the bereaved while being thankful for the privilege of being alive.

More families come together at this time of year than at any other during the 365 days. They were not all harmonious gatherings - no-one guaranteed they would be - but at Christmas, there is a natural desire for togetherness of kith, and kin.

This can't be bad.

Some weeks ago, I mentioned the Clean Slate Campaign, a movement launched in Oxford at the Millennium to smooth over differences and bury old hatchets as one year gives way to the next. It was a wonderful idea - and still is.

With this in mind, I mention the letter from a reader condemning what was intended to be a light-hearted piece about a Big Issue salesman who appeared to be falling asleep on the job in Queen Street (Cabbages and Kings, November 30). I am not Mr Popular with this reader.

No slur on the vendor's work practices was intended, even though, to be fair, flogging the Big Issue to Oxford's populace becomes more difficult if one is in the Land of Nod.

It was an observation piece, an account of a tired salesman sitting precariously on a flimsy stool while nursing a large dog and surrounded by bustling shoppers; a cameo role in life's story - no judgment tended or intended.

But if it offended just one reader, then sorry. I want the slate clean for 2008.

Finally, may I wish good health and happiness for everyone in 2008. May our youngsters thrive and our old 'uns survive (my family say I have now entered this state of disgrace).

May those who kill in the name of religion take stock. May a settled peace be secured for this troubled old world; may the ever-growing number of the hungry be fed and the sick nursed and restored to good health.

May Oxford United return to its rightful place in the Football League while my beloved Huddersfield Town moves towards achieving long-overdue European glory.

Come on now. Even I'm allowed to dream.