DON'T mention the X-word, but signs are already afoot that the festive season is under way.

We've barely stopped moaning about the lack of summer sunshine than advent calendars are beginning to appear in our shops.

Festive-shaped chocolates are being lined up on the shelves, and greetings card shops are starting to clear half their sales area for cards that uniformly come with bright red envelopes. And in Poole, one store has recently inflicted a "winter wonderland" display on bemused shoppers.

The malaise has even struck Chez Chappell, where the Dear Lady Wife is already badgering me to organise visiting schedules for my side of the family come late December.

Now I take my social planning style from Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, who, when asked what he's doing tomorrow, replies: "I don't plan that far ahead."

It is true that I present my wife with a list of gift suggestions in mid-August, but that's just good organisation and surely helps her with the cash flow.

Otherwise, I'm happy to let the festivities just happen around me, dictated only by whatever classic black-and-white movies are getting a rare outing on BBC2 this year.

So what is it about December 25 that just dominates the calendar horizon?

Why are we so keen to rush through the next three months in an orgy of panic-buying, food hoarding and present wrapping?

Surely the rest of the year isn't that bad?

And surely Christmas (oops, I said it) isn't so great that we can't wait for it to roll around in its own good time?

Take it from me, when you're stuck in a traffic jam waiting to get to an already-full car park so you can wade shoulder-to-shoulder with thousands of other shoppers to buy things that'll be half the price a week later, you'll wish it was a balmy September all over again.