EVERY year, sooner or later, in the midst of festive chaos, my wife will inevitably let out a painful moan along the lines of: “I have to do everything at Christmas.”

It’s just part of the Christmas noise – like Bing Crosby singing White Christmas, Santa bellowing “Ho, Ho, Ho” and me exclaiming “How much?” when I see the price of Christmas trees.

The problem with my wife (and I suspect she’s not the only one) is that when I try to pre-empt the Christmas moan by asking if there’s anything I can do to help, she replies: “No, you’ll do it wrong.”

Therefore, you see, us chaps can’t win. We get moaned at for not helping out at Christmas – but we’re not allowed to do anything in the first place. Am I wrong, or am I right?

This year, I refused to let her get away with it. I insisted on being allowed to do “something”. I had a week off work just before Christmas and I demanded to be given a task.

“OK, OK, you can do the Christmas cards,” she sighed.

This was a major concession. Christmas cards are quite a responsibility, requiring high levels of organisation, stamina, diplomacy and a good memory to avoid wishing dead people all the best for the new year. I set about my challenge on the first day of my week off and broke it down into four sections: family, work colleagues, friends, and villagers.

By the end of the week, I was feeling rather proud of myself. All the “family” and “friends” cards had been posted, the “work” cards were safely stored in the glove compartment of my car for when I returned to work, and I was ready to deliver the “villagers”.

I meticulously planned my route round our village in order to deliver the cards in the most efficient order. I was surpassing even my own expectations and anticipating praise from my wife for a job well done.

The last card was to be delivered to friends at the end of the village. I parked outside their house, pushed the card through their letter-box, and turned to come back down the garden path. It was then that I saw my car rolling backwards down the hill.

I’d left the hand-brake off and the car was starting to gather pace. I ran behind it and tried to use my body-weight to stop it. Even with 80 per cent of a tin of Quality Street having been consumed in the previous few days, the car continued rolling towards the main road.

In a panic, I opened the driver’s door and tried to get my foot on the brake, while hopping on the other foot. It was no use. The car steered itself round the corner, with me still hopping beside it, mounted the pavement and came to a halt against a wall.

Mercifully, nothing was coming the other way, an accident was averted, and my car somehow escaped with hardly a scratch.

The bad news is that enough villagers witnessed it to ensure that I’m never entrusted with the responsibility of the Christmas cards again. It’s just too dangerous.

P.S. I’ve just stumbled across the “work colleagues” cards in the glove compartment of my car.

SPREADING THER WORD

IT never ceases to amaze me how far Dad At Large reaches.

A letter arrived last week from Mrs Audrey Chapman, who lives in Christchurch, New Zealand, where she’d read a column on the internet about how my wife and children won’t let me “do bread” with their egg and chips because I don’t spread the butter properly.

Mrs Chapman wrote: “To spread your butter on the bread properly, a broad-bladed, old-fashioned knife does a good job. You should be able to buy one at any second-hand shop. Have a Happy Christmas.”

THE THINGS THEY SAY

THEY were playing the board game Articulate in the Westcott household in Middlesbrough when Joseph, 11, declared: “How am I supposed to describe this? I don’t know who John O’Groats is.”

AS always, it was great fun visiting local children in my Santa Claus costume on Christmas Eve. This year’s tour ended at a house in Croft-on-Tees, where a number of village children gathered to meet Santa.

The best moment came when a little girl called Jenna, aged five, sat next to Father Christmas, who proceeded to consult his “magic notebook” to check if she had been a good girl.

Having declared that Jenna had indeed behaved splendidly all year round, Santa asked her what she would like him to bring on his sleigh.

“Could I please have a lump of Blu Tack,” came the reply.

I suspect that is a first for Christmases past, present and future.