The madness is upon us yet again. Those of us who are survivalists walk close to walls to avoid being trampled by the lemming rush of shoppers. And smart marketing experts prove that this, and not Easter, is the time for resurrection...
MY HUMBUG threshold is somewhat lower this Christmas than it has been for years. Some of the shopping offerings that have shown up are quite casually miraculous.
Take the new Beatles album for instance. John Lennon's death was one of the more traumatic episodes in my life because I'd often fantasised about witnessing a Beatles reunion. Suddenly the only thing that would make this possible seemed to be three more bullets.
Fifteen years on, Yoko Ono pulls a rabbit out of her hat. Technology steps in, and the Fab Four live again. Delightful!
Then there's the new Queen album. Freddy Mercury's death is the closest I've come on a personal level to the tragedy of Aids. I cried in frustration at the Freddy Mercury tribute when Brian May sang "Too much love will kill you" because I would never hear Mercury sing that song.
Suddenly, there's a new Queen album - Made in Heaven - and Freddy lives to sing those words. Marvellous!
But the most stunning comeback has to be Louisa May Alcott. The same woman who wrote those syrupy sweet tales of Little Women, Little Men, Jo's Boys was a passionate campaigner for women's suffrage, but took to writing those gooey tales because they paid her bills.
Now she's back with a never published tale of lust and debauchery that has lain untouched on a library shelf for more than a century. Well, not quite that lurid. The Chase is probably tame compared to modern-day bodice rippers, but given the woman's history and mutual influence with Henry David Thoreau, that book is definitely on my shopping list along with Salman Rushdie's new offering.
I've had my own pleasant surprise in the "voice from the past" department. Earlier this year, I stumbled across a school notebook - one of those basic black cardboard cover with red spine, feint and margin things - which contains only five pages of writing.
My grandfather - who was probably the single biggest influence in my life, having taught me how to read - had scrawled a brief autobiography in block letters on those five pages.
I was in the US when he died in 1987. I managed to persuade the switchboard operator at St. Augustine's to connect me to his bedside where my family stood vigil. They put the phone to his ear. I told him "I love you". And he quietly left us.
Funerals in my community are normally very vocal affairs. We weep openly, men and women, giving vent to our grief. Some consider this to be crude and undignified. It is, but it helps us to come to terms with our loss more quickly.
Halfway across the world while they cremated him and scattered his ashes out at sea, I was denied that catharsis. His loss was never real to me until I returned to his... to my home with my daughter whom he would never see. And I cried, never having felt so helpless in my life.
I can smile now looking at his handwriting speaking to me: "1943 -- I shifted to 16 Henwood Road, Stamford Hill, on 21st March 1943 one day before the Pegging Act under the Smuts U.P. government."
This is the only obliquely political reference in his writing. In fact, he spent the rest of his life defying what was later "refined" into the Group Areas Act.
He watched while our friends and family in the immediate neighbourhood were robbed of their property and scattered around the city, but refused to move, exploiting every possible loophole.
He was philosophical about my outrage at the injustice of it all. "This is why you need to be educated," he would say. "People can rob you of your money and your property, but no one can take away what you know."
Today, December 16, the "Day of Reconciliation" is his birthday. The house is still ours. My grandmother, mother, and brother live there. I have moved in two doors away.
We face new threats today. There are those who are trying to rezone the area for light industrial use, and those who illegally run businesses in Greyville Village.
What matter if buildings have been superficially restored to house a business? When split by properties that are deserted by night, neighbourhoods become isolated dwellings deprived of the mutual watchfulness of homes and families. Crime follows. Streets are no longer safe for walking at night. Children cannot play during the day.
But a community is once again emerging. There are people who want to live here and want a neighbourhood. We're going to win. We've got history on our side.
Happy Birthday, Thatha. And thanks for reminding me.