My mother and I, sequestered away in a house in the Scottish hills, a roaring fire in front of us complementing the howling wind outside. A melted camembert sits on the floor between us, waiting to be devoured, and I have just uncorked a bottle of wine. The glug-glug-glug as it reaches the glasses, one of the most promising sounds in the world, makes us both smile.

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I’m a scrooge. This isn’t really news. Bah, humbug.

I don’t get into the Christmas spirit, unless by “Christmas spirit” you mean forgetting what day it is and working throughout.

But when I read about a “Satanic Anti-Christmas Flea Market” happening in East London at the weekend, I decided I had to go along. After all, Anti-Christmas? That’s the kind of spirit I can get into.

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This one’s whipped by in a happy frenzy of work-related productivity.

That’s not even sarcasm: I actually like my job. I still have to pinch myself sometimes. I spent so many years in an industry I actively disagreed with, doing a job I hated myself for, that I can barely believe I’m finally free of it and spending my days being paid to do things I enjoy.

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