IT IS AMAZING, and disconcerting, how much stuff—using the term in the purest literary or esoteric form—a little Cabin-In-The-Woods can hold. A cabin that houses two medium-sized people and one small cat. And it is further disconcerting to learn how much of the stuff—according to the chatelaine of the cabin—is not in the right place, or the right arrangement, or needs to be cleaned or moved or stored or picked up or ‘put away’—somewhere, somehow—when family are coming for Christmas. This is, of course, after much more stuff—by way of garlands and wreaths and indoor trees and glass balls and angels and lights and shepherds and wise men (as opposed to the wise guy who lives here) and such are added to the already well-stocked cabin. Then, mind you, we have the scrubbing and dusting and mopping and swiffering and vacuuming and straightening and what-not. Plenty of what-not. So that, in the end, we are ready—mostly—for Christmas. Except then, of course, we still have the cooking. But at that point I am generally advised, in a sort of patient voice, to get out of the way. I do.

I don’t know. It’s all great fun, I guess. And kind of magical. But is anyone else’s Christmas like this?