This week, as I drove to visit Mother Dearest out in deepest darkest Over Wyre, I couldn’t help but notice somebody has put their Christmas decorations up.
It may only be early November, but their porch and garden are lit up by a million twinkling lights of varying colours – it’s like turning a corner and finding yourself smack in the middle of Heathrow.
There really is no need to dress up your house at this stage – I can only hope they’ve gone for a non-drop tree and don’t have any major worries about the size of the electricity bill.
Maybe they’re just getting Christmas in early having heard the doom and gloom warnings about the possibility of power cuts.
We have backed ourselves into something of an energy corner.
Coal is out, too dirty, and gas isn’t the blue-flamed saviour it was now we realise that buying in bulk from the Siberian steppe involves doing business with a Tzar dressed in... well, normally not very much.
There’s a whole host of people in jumpers and bobble hats jumping up and down about the environmental impact of nuclear, wind and wave power, and we live in Britain so I’m fairly sure solar is not an option.
And so now we face a tiny, miniscule, slim chance that demand for power may, briefly, outstrip supply.
I’m sure we could get over this by slightly staggering the screening times of Coronation Street – ensuring the nation doesn’t reach for the kettle in unison once the ads come on.
I don’t contribute to such spikes thanks to an aversion to soap operas.
If the lights do go out I’ll probably not notice because I’ll be off walking the dog.
I’m not even worried about giving up the heat. I spent the first half of last week dealing with winter by wearing several layers of jumpers – not because I’m cheap, but because I couldn’t fathom the workings of the new thermostat.
I’m not an energy saver or an eco-activist, but I feel I’ve already played my part in keeping those fairy lights shining through sheer incompetence.