Twelfth Night has come and gone and all my Christmas cards have been taken down.

And all the decorations have been stowed away so as not to attract the attentions of the forces of darkness which, I am reliably informed, will move in for the next 12 months if I don't lash up and stow by January 6.

The house looks a bit bare, not to mention in need of a good dusting, but I am reasonably sure I shall eventually remember where I have put the photos which usually hide the worst bits of unpolished furniture from the eyes of any stray visitors who are rash enough to brave the hinterland beyond the front door in the hope of grabbing a passing coffee.

This is the time when I upgrade my address book while I am still reasonably certain as to who has moved, crossed me off their list or, sadly, shuffled off this mortal coil.

It is also the time when I turn detective and try to work out who can have signed a card in a language which would baffle MI6. It looks like **ppxx & @@ te, which does not bear the remotest resemblance to any friend whom I can recall.

In fact, it doesn't resemble any known name as far as I can see. The card then goes on a growing pile to be shown to daughter on next visit in the faint hope it may be one of her chums. It never is but one can hope, can't one?

It is the time of year when my address book begins to look like a disaster area, with crossings out, additions of postcodes (how long since they were introduced?) and now I need extra room for the latest "must have" - the email address.

By the way, I am slowly (very slowly) beginning to get the hang of email but don't expect to receive a communication from me through that medium just yet. What I learn today has usually slipped peacefully away by the time I log on tomorrow and can only be recovered by close scrutiny of notes written in pencil in a shaking hand as I try to type things in with the usual two-fingered expertise of someone who never went to night school to learn to type, much to my regret at this late stage of my life.

Then I have to start reading all the enclosed letters which I didn't have time to read in the rush before Christmas. That is the bit I really enjoy but it fills me with guilt that I, too, ought to be sufficiently organised that I could send out a whole year's worth of news in one fell swoop.

I have one friend with whom I exchange cards and both our cards have the same message - "will this be the year we actually get around to having coffee together?" - but so far, we have not achieved it. Maybe this year?

One of the reasons is because the year is going indecently fast. I have already seen the first advertisement for Easter eggs on TV and I have friends who have prudently booked their summer holiday in case the holiday season misses them as it shoots past.

It may have been Christmas a couple of weeks ago but it is obviously time I was thinking of stocking up with next year's Christmas cards, stopping briefly as I shoot through the stores to buy a supply of Easter eggs for next Easter.

Of course, I have already bought this year's supply and hidden them in case I get tempted. The problem will arise when I try to resurrect them to convey them to their new owners and I can't for the life of me remember where I hid them.

I need to find them quickly or it will be the August bank holiday and then we shall all be getting ready for the holiday season.

No, not that holiday - I mean next Christmas. And that is where we came in. If your year goes as fast as mine, I had better wish you all a Happy New Year for 2004 before that one gets away from me as well. Meantime, have a very happy 2003, or what is left of it.