Why does this not surprise me?

Maureen Dowd confesses something:

I’ve never said this out loud before, but I can’t stand Christmas.

Everyone in my family loves it except me, and they can’t fathom why I get the mullygrubs, as a Southern friend of mine used to call a low-level depression, from Thanksgiving straight through New Year.

I thoroughly enjoy Christmas. There are a few sad thoughts, like when I think about how I’ll never walk in from the swirling snowflakes through the front door of my parents’ house and be greeted by my grandfather, who in one deft move would remove your coat and place a mug of hot buttered rum in your hand. Nor is my German friend, ever clueless, again likely to walk in with a vague expression on his face and end up sitting down for the family’s formal Christmas dinner wearing a borrowed coat, dress shirt and tie. (He did this for so many years that it ended up becoming its own tradition until he moved back to Germany).

But I still love it and I treasure both the memories and the new experiences. I would pity those, like Ms Dowd, who loathe Christmas, were it not for the efforts of her spiritual kin to remove it from the public eye.