As Christmas Day inches closer and closer and the general population becomes altogether more annoying and desperate, there comes a point in the run up when the Scrooge-like cynicism of adulthood will inevitably kick in. Regardless of how much youve convinced yourself that Christmas is still that Dickensian wonder of yesteryear, the harsh fact is that for the most part its a right pain in the arse. Despite rushing around like a blue-arsed fly to get everything done in time, youll still end up sprinting from place to place at the last minute buying offensively priced gifts for a bunch of people you cant stand. Or forgot you were even related to. Your bank balance develops new and inventive ways of telling you to bugger off; you spend the majority of December drunk enough to completely remove vast chunks of your memory. Worryingly, you contemplate large-scale murder on the once-a-year festive morons who clog up your local dressed like elves. We all romanticise Christmas in our own little way all that wide-eyed excitement of waking up on Christmas morning to a room full of presents; the promise of a gorgeously snowy day; a deliciously snug-looking living room with a roaring log fire; that tangible sense of magic in the air. This is all well and good but youre not eleven any more. And not to sound too brutally grow-the-f*!@-up, but it doesnt exist. Except in your mind. The accompanying stress of being a grown up at Christmas completely negates it. Its heart-breaking isnt it? So take a few minutes now to reminisce over things you miss about being a little sprat at Christmas - when it really was as magical as you think it is now.