I won't be writing you a thank you letter this year as I know damn well I didn't ask for a huge dose of panic-induced adrenalin.
No love, me.
Dear everyone (who is not B) who works in the florist's shop above which I live,
Please to be making sure that when you lock up the shop, you don't put the security catch on the back door. It may be the shop's back door but it's also my front door and when I get home on Christmas Eve after 6 hours of wearing a flashing hat and being polite to idiots, I would like to actually get into the damn building before my frozen peas thaw.
Even less love, me.
Dear screwups who compiled the latest Telephone Directory,
Thank you for ignoring B's instructions to not include his home number in your latest edition. You are indeed worthy of the BT name.
With grudging love, me.
Thank you for being home, for being sober, for coming out into the cold and letting me in through the shop and apologising and for promising to find out who locked me out (again!).
Much love, me.
ETA: RIP Charlie Drake. Goodbye, my darlin'.