Here's the point at which I stop blaming my read-them-all-in-sequence silliness for my relative apathy to the Christmas books and instead cock an eye at Dickens and his audaciously-indistinct narrative elements. Okay, so I'm not accusing the man of being lazy, but just how many tales of spiritual seasonal self-realisation does he expect us to endure before it all feels a bit familiar? Well five apparently. Good move to stop right there.