Pumpkins have been escorted off the premises. The clocks have sulked backwards. Somewhere in the kitchen, Mariah Carey is already defrosting on the side. Every year, Britain reopens hostilities over the same question: is it too early for Christmas?
This year, let’s negotiate peace. Presenting the November Armistice—a set of gently binding social rules that lets everyone survive the grey without starting a full sleigh invasion.
Article I — The Remembrance Buffer
Until the second Sunday of November has passed, keep it low-key. If lights must glow, they glow warm and whispery, not “runway to Lapland.” Wreaths may exist in a Schrödinger state—bought, hidden, unobserved.
Article II — The Pre-Heating Clause
November isn’t Christmas; it’s pre-heating.
- Permitted:
- fairy lights (warm white, two metres max per room),
- blankets with unreasonable sleeves,
- films where someone inherits a failing bakery and a rugged lumberjack,
- cinnamon in anything that will sit still.
- Prohibited:
- full trees,
- exterior reindeer with moving parts,
- musical doorbells that open with “ding dong merrily.”
Article III — Consent-Based Caroling
Public playlists require informed consent. Office speakers: neutral until 1 December. Headphones: sovereign territory. Acapella in open plan: war crime.
Article IV — The Mince Pie Doctrine (Proportionality)
You may have mince pies in November only if you behave as though they are medicinal. Maximum two per week; scoffing the whole box triggers an automatic reset to Jacob’s crackers and reflection. Let’s ignore the fact they’ve been on sale in Sainsbury’s since mid-August…
Article V — The John Lewis Trigger
Decor escalation is formally allowed once two of the following occur:
- the John Lewis advert lands,
- your local council turns on the town lights,
- the first proper frost that makes you say, “Ooh, that’s fresh,”
- you find yourself pricing nutmeg like it’s a currency.
If all four occur on the same day, you may erect a small tree (≤5ft) and hum respectfully.
Article VI — The Twinkle Tax
Early twinkle creates a duty to save something for Christmas week. If your lights are up in mid-November, you are legally obliged to debut:
- a new ornament on 20 December,
- a heretofore untested gravy technique,
- or a surprise board game with at least one rule no one will understand.
Article VII — The Twelve Days Rehabilitation Scheme
For those who prefer Christmas after the 25th, we salute your stamina. You will receive priority booking on leftover cheese and possession of Twelfth Night smugness. In exchange, please refrain from tutting at windows that look like small branch offices of Santa, even if they went up on the 9th.
Article VIII — The Year-Round Accommodation
If your fairy lights never came down, fine: declare them “ambient” not “advent.” Watching Elf in July is permitted under the Cultural Comfort Clause, provided you do not attempt to normalise yule logs during a heatwave.
The Psychological Winter Principle (The New Bit)
We’ve been arguing the wrong question. It isn’t “When does Christmas begin?” It’s “When does psychological winter begin?” For many, it starts the minute daylight clocks off at 4pm. November cosiness isn’t a premature Christmas; it’s a morale operation. Think of it as issuing emotional hi-vis: soft light, gentle rituals, low-stakes joy. Keep the big traditions for December—but don’t deny November a bit of glow. The nation runs better when the nation is less grumpy.
Diagnostic: Is It Too Early? (A Field Test)
- If your living room looks like a tasteful café at dusk: legal.
- If your front garden can be seen from the ISS: illegal until December.
- If you’ve already opened the “just in case” Celebrations tub and are bargaining with the Bountys: seek counsel.
- If your child’s school nativity is still “casting Joseph” and you’ve built a stable with working Wi-Fi: suspend operations.
Closing Statement
You don’t have to choose between joy now and magic later. Light the room, not the runway. Keep something special back for the week when time folds in on itself and everyone forgets what day it is. Begin where your winter begins, and be gentle with the neighbours whose winter begins elsewhere.
When challenged, smile, pass the shortbread, and explain you’re merely pre-heating. After all, Mariah Carey is already defrosting on the side.
James Henshaw is a brooding Geordie export who swapped the industrial grit of Newcastle for the peculiar calm of Lincolnshire—though he’s yet to fully trust the flatness. With a mind as sharp as a stiletto and a penchant for science-tinged musings, James blends the surreal with the everyday, crafting blogs that feel like the lovechild of a physics textbook and a fever dream.
Equally at home dissecting the absurdities of modern life as he is explaining quantum theory with alarming metaphors, James writes with the wit of someone who knows too much and the irreverence of someone who doesn’t care. His posts are infused with a dark humour that dares you to laugh at the strange, the inexplicable, and the occasionally terrifying truths of the universe—whether it’s the unnerving accuracy of Alexa or the existential menace of wasps.
A figure of mystery with a slightly unsettling edge, James is the sort of bloke who’d explain the meaning of life over a pint, but only after a dramatic pause long enough to make you question your own existence. His wit cuts deep, his insights are sharp, and his ability to make the surreal feel strangely plausible keeps readers coming back for more.
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