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Where do you live? No I don’t want your actual address, I’m not a stalker. I won’t be going on Google maps to see your crib. No I mean what’s it like? Nice area? Quiet streets with neatly trimmed lawns? Good or bad neighbours? Is it a hustle, bustle kind of place? High rise apartments with views of a city?

I ask because mine has gone down the nick quicker than Philip Schofield’s career. The last couple of years our little neck of the woods has changed from a fairly quiet Cul de sac to ghetto land. It’s never been upmarket but now dodgy characters seem lurk at every turn. We now have the quickest dust men in England. The truck screeches down the Close and those little elf like blokes jump out in luminance orange and load the bins on the back of the cart, emptied and gone, like a military operation. The postie is the same. She sprints round the houses with amazing speed, Usain Bolt on steroids. The letters flying out of her clammy, nervous hands as she keeps one eye on the gang of lads staring back menacingly, looking for trouble.

I can’t see Santa coming round here on Christmas Eve, unless he’s wearing a suit of armour. The poor old sod’s going to get mugged as soon as he lands the overloaded sleigh. Before that jolly fat man can say, “Ho Ho Ho” he’s knocked unconscious and all those pressies are gone, sold off for a few quid in the local pub….

Donner and Blitzen go straight to the dodgy butcher round the corner and chop chop, the finest venison sausage you can eat, going cheap on Boxing day. Santa’s burnt out sleigh will be found the next day.. smouldering on waste ground…

But then again, maybe not. Perhaps Christmas magic will do it’s thing and those cheeky scumbags will be too busy enjoying festive merriment and libations and can’t be arsed to cause trouble, hoping they don’t get a sack of coal….

Wherever you are, Happy Christmas bloggers x