So Christmas is here again; that brief time each year when, for a few short weeks, we put away our petty enmities, forgive our neighbours their trespasses, and concentrate instead on the more important things in life, such as trying to work out which of the 250 pea bulbs on our tree lights is the dud one that’s preventing the system from working. “Good King Wences last looked out”, or so we used to sing – and during the next few weeks our neighbourhoods and local communities will be making their own efforts to crowbar us off our sofas and out into the streets. Garish angels picked out in fairy lights will adorn our town centres, local parks will twinkle with gaily decorated trees, and hastily convened Christmas markets will tempt us with cups of scalding Glühwein, a meeting with Santa, or the chance to snaffle that unexpected present with which to delight our friends and relatives. But as Robert Burns was always reminding us, “The best laid plans o’ mice an’ men gang aft a-gley” – as was discovered a week or two back by the residents of Swansea. Instead of the promised “Grand Christmas procession” advertised by the city council, people lining the streets to view this extravaganza were nonplussed to find the parade consisting of three desultory floats. Indeed, the whole shebang took only six minutes to pass by. Worse still, some folk who’d driven into the centre to witness it returned to their vehicles to discover they’d been issued with parking tickets. Happy Christmas everyone.