Now I don’t drink from one year to the next, literally. From one December to the next to be precise. Then, for some strange reason, the minute someone says the word “Christmas” my brain cuts to a vision of prettily bottled lemony vodka or a deep filled glass of cream drenched whiskey. I can only think that, at some point during the months between, I have fallen prey to subliminal messages sent out by the distilleries to ensure that everyone, even this tea-totaller, has a very merry Christmas. Or I suppose it could be a subconscious throw back to all those slightly tipsy (completely rat-arsed) Christmas periods (weekends and any day with the letter y in it) of my youth. Either way, in the “spirit” of Christmas, I went to the supermarket today and bought myself a bottle of Irish Cream. Christmas, of course, hasn’t officially started yet. The bottle of Irish Cream, however, has.