So there's a man walking through a dense woodland area, until he finally comes to a solitary cabin with rooms to let. He walks up to it and raps twice, loudly, on the door.

"Who's there?" comes a reply.

"Bob," the man responds.

"Uh huh, Bob Down, I suppose?" says the now-wary voice emanating from the cabin. "I've heard that one before, mate! You'll hafta do better than that."

"Now, look here," Bob implores, "I'm a simple man named Bob, and I'd like a place to stay for the night."

"No jokers admitted, sorry." And with that, the man will hear no more.

Later, when Bob tells this story to his Pals, he is effusive about the rudeness of the proprietor and the exhaustion he endured making his way to another establishment for the evening.

However, Bob is always insistent that the dwelling itself was a handsome venture, a property of stout build and an inviting aura, as whatever grumblings he might have about his lacklustre experiences trying to procure a bed for the night, none of that in and of itself should be construed as a Knock at the Cabin.

I hate the way they talk so much,

I hate the way they laugh.

I hate that they’re so out of touch,

I hate the constant gaffes.

I hate the way that their do bits,

I hate it when they sing,

I hate these opinionated sh!ts,

And I really f$&@in' hate it when they sing.

I hate the fact that they are always around,

Even though the pod’s hit a wall,

But mostly I hate that they can’t rhyme,

Not any one of them, not a single Pal.

Christmas isn't what you think it is. It isn't contained within the waking, sometimes sleepless days of the yuletide season; it doesn't simply begin and end at those polar midnights of late December. It's not quantifiable by tallying cards and presents, not merely a protracted spree of buying and giving, wrapping and tearing, hugging and crying. Christmas, really, is more akin to music or memory than the temporal here and now; even when it's not loudly ringing out, even when it happened so long ago, you carry it within you to summon against the darkness, holding it tight against the quiet and the cold. It's something you know as a child and try your absolute hardest to forget as an adult, but the truth is that Christmas is truly, deeply, embarrassingly about that one special thing: it's love, actually.