Dear Friends, You all know by now what a self-centred, egoistic little prat I am. And so I have particular pleasure at this time of the year because I can send you all a round robin and bore you out of your mind with the stultifyingly dull doings of the Mullen family during 2005.

It has to be said that the year didn't start very well. Young Darren had another attack of his narcissistic personality disorder and murdered the cook. I wouldn't mind, but it took me ages to get the blood out of the lambs' wool carpet and we had no proper meals for a month. The shrinks said Darren was suffering from learning difficulties as well, and carted him off to the secure mental hospital. Anyhow, every cloud has a silver lining: the new cook - a rather nice young man from Notting Hill - turned out to be much better than the dead one; and they let Darren out of the loony bin in June.

And guess what? Our Keith, who as you know has always batted for the other side, fell in glorious lust with the new cook; and they celebrated their civil partnership in August. We got the Vicaress - the Reverend Ms Esmeralda Salmonella - to give them a blessing in church and she preached this brill sermonette in which she said that nobody was to be judgmental and stuff because the Bible said that all you need is love, like, and none of that sin and fornication rubbish that the Old Farts are always going on about.

Our Amber took advantage of the 24-hour drinking challenge and went to the George Best Memorial Binge. She came back with this great joke about how George had been buried like, all except his liver - which was taken to the palace to receive the VC from Her Majesty. As soon as that nice Mr Cameron got the leadership of the Tory Party, our eldest, Rubella, declared she wanted to become an MP. As far as me and her mum can see, she'd be ideal for it, as she hasn't a conservative idea in her ugly little head, but she's fab at presentation and body language and communication skills and all that stuff.

And what d'you think happened to little me, then? Well, to be truthful, I can't really say "little" as I've put on 16 stone sitting grieving over John Peel and John Lennon and stuffing myself with Big Macs and cheap choccies. The psychiatric social worker says I lack self-esteem and maybe I ought to try one of them colonic irrigation things. Our Keith and the new cook said it sounded like fun to them. Amelia has had a recurrence of her old sexually-transmitted disease - I think it was the one she picked up on the Lesbian and Gay Pride march we all went on led by the Bishop. The Bishop was lovely about it actually, and said we must all be positive in a meaningful way and not have any stigmatism about filth or anything.

There's been just one big disappointment this year and that was the discovery that our Clive hunts to hounds. I don't know how he's managed to keep it a secret so long. But now it's out we can hardly bear to look the neighbours in the eye. Worst thing that's happened to the Mullen family since our Denise was seen wearing a fur coat and attempting to smoke her pipe in the Well Woman Centre.

Anyhow, A happy Winterval and a politically-correct New Year to you all, from Pete

* Peter Mullen is Rector of St Michael's, Cornhill, in the City of London, and Chaplain to the Stock Exchange.