'Tis the season for pesky round robin letters

"Well, it’s almost exactly 12 months since we sent you our last irritatingly smug ‘round robin' letter, so here we go again. When I say 'we' I am of course referring to that collection of supremely talented people that make up our wonderful, golden family – so much better in every way than yours. And since we’re so busy and lead such incredibly full lives, we don’t have the time to edit this letter even slightly so that it appears to be directed entirely at you, and not to a ridiculously long list of our friends, relatives and acolytes. So, where to begin? Well, in January our eldest, Craig, was accepted by Cambridge (actually ‘clamoured-for’ would be more apt since so many other universities wanted him). In February my darling husband reached the Top 100 Rich List at last, and in March Suzi represented the county in hockey, netball and hurling. Or was it curling? Anyway, the rest of the year raced by in a blur of successes, triumphs, social whirls and the occasional good work. So that’s it for another year. Don’t bother to reply – we wouldn’t read it anyway since it would doubtless be filled with drivel about your own pitifully inadequate lives. Oh, and happy new year by the way."

Ridiculously excited about my new breadmaker

You may think all I'm doing is sitting here writing my blog, but you'd be wrong. I'm also making bread. My husband gave me a breadmaker for Christmas and it's the best gift ever. You just put everything inside and switch it on, and (after a rather agonising four-hour wait) you end up with a perfectly-baked loaf of bread. Kitchen gadgets like this change hands every Christmas because we all want something to play with on Xmas Day. But some are infinitely better than others.

Juicer/smoothy maker.
Great in theory - think of all that healthy freshly-squeezed juice after the excesses of Xmas. But you actually have to buy up the entire contents of a greengrocer's and torture it through various tubes, filters and syphoning agents to end up with a thimbleful of juice. You then down it in one before dismantling your toy to wash all those tubes and filters.

Slow cooker
Not a great deal of fun, but a real winner anyway. At last you can cook and go to the pub at the same time.

Toasted sandwich maker.
How clever - you butter the sandwich on the OUTside, which greases the sandwich maker and prevents it from sticking. So you end up with a greasier-than-you'd-like-it toasted sandwich and a contraption that you have to clean. Two problems that you don't get with the traditional option - ie the grill. (Yes, that's right - I never clean my grill).

Waffle maker
This was a big hit. Did you know that you can cast aside the scales and throw in eggs, flour, sugar and butter with abandon and still end up with something ressembling a waffle?

Potato peeler.
This involves putting the potatoes and some water into a big bowl and then manually turning a handle many, many times until you end up with tennis elbow and a piebald pile of potatoes that you have to go over again with, yes, a potato peeler to check for eyes. Pointless.

Pasta maker.
The ultimate in useless kitchen gadgets. This enables you to laboriously make a flat sheet of pasta and cut it into tagliatelli (using admittedly, a rather satisfying Playdough-like attachment). You then lay it carefully it on a plate. As your pile of tagliatelli grows you become increasingly excited - only to realise that it is all sticking together to form a ball of dough again.

Christmas: when stray Santas give you chocolate on the tube

You know the best part of Christmas for me? No, it's not the presents. Not the meal, either, nor the copious amounts of wine one feels compelled to drink. It's the Goodwill to All Men bit - that general feeling of warmth and complicity as everyone shares the excitement of the festive season.

I experienced a bit of Goodwill on Saturday when I was on the London underground. All the passengers were studiously avoiding each others' eyes as usual when about 20 Santas alighted. They were very jolly (but surprisingly sober) and we were all silently trying to work out who they were and what they were doing on the Tube. One of the Santas called out to no-one in particular: "Yes, that's right! Santa takes the tube. Your presents may be late this year!" To which the rest of us grinned, half-smiled or looked away depending on our disposition. What did they want? Were they collecting for something? we fretted. But no. Santa One reached into his bag and started tossing chocolate bars to the passengers. We all became quite animated then, waving our arms around to show we wanted one too.

This sort of thing happens quite a lot at this time of year. Some years ago I changed trains on the way home from a pre-Christmas night out in London and was disconcerted to discover everybody at Finsbury Park station singing Christmas carols. There was no choir or anything - just a bunch of random strangers obviously all feeling festive and a bit merry.

Here are some other good things about Christmas.

• Pubs with decorations. So cosy, especially when there's a roaring fire too.
  
• Candlelit carol services. Of course I never go, I just like to know they're there.
  
• Inviting neighbours you never see around for drinks just because it's Christmas
  
• Boozy phone calls to long-lost friends and relatives on Xmas Day
  
• Santa's visit (obviously)

The many faces of Santa Claus

Whether he arrives down the chimney or from under the sea, and whether he’s a fat man dressed in red or a kindly old witch - everyone is pleased to see Santa. Or are they?

German children leave their shoes outside the door on December 5 and the next day, the good children's footwear will be filled with presents courtesy of St Nicholas while there’ll be a rod (symbolising punishment) for the bad ones. But it’s the Christ Child who actually does the honours on Christmas Eve.

An old witch called Befana flies to Italy on her broomstick on January 6 and leaves presents for the children, who presumably haven’t read Snow White or wouldn’t be so enthusiastic about her visit.

As we know, British Santa is a jolly fat man dressed in Coca Cola red who ignores the doors and windows of the houses he visits and enters via the chimney instead. He then fills children’s stockings with presents; scoffs any spare mince pies and leaves via the chimney, staying pristine and rosy-cheeked throughout the whole process.

Santa doesn’t arrive from the North Pole at all for children who live in the Caribbean islands of Nevis and St Kitts. Instead he comes from under the sea.

The Dutch Santa has a dodgy sidekick called Black Pete who comes from Spain. Black Pete is the original Santa’s little helper and is depicted as a colourful character with a blacked-up face. The dodgy part comes when children have been bad. Black Pete’s job is to replace their presents with lumps of coal and he may even dump bad children into his sack and take them back to Spain, though for what purpose remains unclear.

Children in Puerto Rico don’t leave stockings at the end of their bed, but grass underneath it. They don’t do this on December 24, either, but on January 5. And Santa doesn’t come – the Three Kings do. Their camels are very thankful for the grass, and the kings are happy to replace it with gifts for the kids.

Cracking facts about your Christmas cracker

It took 44 children from a primary school in Chesham plus the Saracens Rugby Team to pull the world’s largest Christmas cracker (207 feet long) in December 2001. The cracker took four days to build - and even contained a giant hat and a lousy joke.

The sky’s the limit if you want to push the boat out on crackers this Christmas. Fortnum & Mason is offering six hand-quilted crackers decorated with real pearls and filled with gifts such as jewellery rolls, cufflinks and money clips for a cool £1,000.

WH Smiths and other leading stores may refuse to sell you crackers if you are under 16 because of their gunpowder content. But crackers are among the safest Christmas accessories there are. According to the Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents, the biggest causes of Xmas mishaps are turkey fat burns; candle fires; falling off ladders while decorating the tree, and tripping over discarded toys when drunk. See, crackers don’t even figure.

Army bomb disposal experts were this week called out to defuse supplies of Christmas crackers that were being sent to soldiers abroad. The bomb squad had to manually remove every “snap strip” - classed as explosives - before the crackers could be sent to troops in the world’s major danger zones.

Christmas crackers were apparently given to returning war heroes as gifts after WWI. "Well done for withstanding the gas, bombs, sniper fire and footrot - have a pencil sharpener and a party hat on us."

You think that’s funny? You must be crackers

Have you ever thought about our strange custom of pulling crackers at Christmas? How we have to read out those terrible jokes, sneer at the toys and then wear those stupid hats?
It’s all the fault of some bloke called Tom Smith, a baker in Victorian London, apparently.
A bit of an entrepreneur, he began selling his own version of Parisian bonbons after a visit to France when he was impressed by those tasty almond sweets that came in a twist of paper.
When he realised his biggest bonbon customers were young lovers who bought them for their sweethearts, he began to incorporate love mottos. Then he became even more adventurous. Inspired by the crackle of his own log fire, he began looking at ways of recreating that exciting “ snap” sound.
Several accidents and nasty burns later he perfected his salt petre “snap” and incorporated these into his sweets as well. As competitors flooded the market with rival products he was forced to differentiate with small toys and hats. The rest, as they say, is history.
His legacy is a bunch of bemused, slightly sozzled British people who all sit around the table with their ridiculous hats worn askew as they groan at jokes. Thanks, Tom – we owe you one.

Some typical cracker jokes

Why did the turkey cross the road?
Because he wasn't chicken

What is brown and sticky?
A brown stick

What does Santa do with fat elves?
He sends them to an Elf Farm

Why is it difficult to keep a secret at the North Pole?
Because your teeth chatter

If a buttercup is yellow, what colour is a hiccup?
Burple

How does Santa like his pizza?
Deep pan, crisp and even

What always succeeds?
A budgie with no teeth

How does Bob Marley like his doughnuts?
Wi' Jammin

What did the fish say when it swam into a wall?
Dam

Wacky washrooms and terrific toilets: Part 2

An intriguing feature of the ladies’ loos at Schiphol Airport, Holland, is a cubicle for urination only. Is this the washroom equivalent of the “baskets only” queue in the supermarket?

In New York’s Bar 89, the unisex toilets are see-through kiosks that resemble telephone boxes (but with toilets). Unsuspecting visitors are alarmed at the prospect of peeing in full view of other diners – nut luckily the transparent walls fog up as soon as the cubicle door is locked.

Also in the US, Jungle Jim’s market in Ohio has a washroom that at first glance seems to be nothing more than a line of portaloos. Would-be-users form a queue outside – only to discover that the entrance is disguise for a large, plush, jungle-themed washroom within. Such wags, these Americans.

Apparently the ancient Greeks were pretty advanced when it came to plumbing and there’s an elaborate system of sewers in Crete dating back to 1700 BC. Why, then, are modern Greeks are unable to produce a toilet capable of flushing away loo paper?

Some lavatories in Japan have been programmed to automatically raise the seat for a man, but not for a woman. Apparently a sensor detects whether a person is backing onto the loo or walking towards it. I can imagine many late-night games of “confound the toilet” take place in that country.

When washrooms become fun

I seem to spend a large part of my life writing about lavatories. A sad admission, and one that will no doubt cause me some regret on my deathbed. But as a pleasant contrast, much of the rest of my time is spent writing about international cultural quirks. So I thought I'd combine the two and bring you some toilet quirks from around the world.

You’d better mind your pees and Qs when you visit the De Balie cultural centre in Amsterdam, Holland. Apparently this has an interactive talking toilet that rebukes you for smoking or leaving the seat up.

Japanese toilets are as high-tech as you would expect. Built-in bidets, heated seats, glow in the dark loos and toilets with a blow-dry function are all pretty commonplace. Some Japanese lavatories are so complicated they come with a manual and a remote control.

The Madonna Inn in California, America, has a “waterfall urinal”. This is more fun than it sounds since the man (only men can play, unfortunately) pee upon a bare expanse of rock and if they manage to break a beam of light they activate the waterfall themselves .

Peeing in Space is achieved with the aid of his and hers’ suction attachments. The liquid waste is then sent into space where it freezes and creates a light show as the crystals catch the sun. With solid waste, your average astronaut needs to keep his wits about him (or her) and catch it in a bag before it breaks loose and orbits the spacecraft.

More tomorrow.

The Americans: a law unto themselves

You have to be careful in America - there's so many things you can do wrong without knowing it. So here's a bit of help in staying on the right side of the law in the Land of the Free. Though basically you should be OK if you avoid shooting rabbits, jumping off buildings or getting marine creatures drunk.

In New York you need a special licence before you hang out your clothes on a washing line.

Unmarried women are not allowed to go parachuting in Florida on a Sunday.

Shooting rabbits from a motorboat is illegal in Kansas.

In Wisconsin, the state prisons are not allowed to serve butter substitutes to the inmates.

Don't be tempted to get a fish drunk in Ohio if you want to stay on the right side of the law.

The penalty for jumping off a building in New York is death.

In North Dakota it is illegal to lie down and fall asleep with your shoes on.

In California, animals are banned from mating publicly within 1,500 feet of a tavern, school, or place of worship.

In Nebraska bar owners aren't allowed to sell beer unless simultaneously brewing a kettle of soup.

Liquor stores in Indiana are banned from selling milk.

Bank robbers in Louisiana aren't allowed to squirt the clerk with a water pistol after committing their crime.

Vehicle drivers in Alabama must not drive when blindfold.

In North Dakota, it is illegal to serve beer and pretzels at the same time in a bar or restaurant.

If it's only rain, think yourself lucky

The storms they are a comin’, or so say the weather gurus. But then again they’re always prophesising doom in the shape of some sort of extreme weather pattern. So as we peer anxiously at the skies, spare a thought for those who have lived through much more extreme – and frankly, weird – weather in years gone by.

It’s raining frogs
Hallelulah! A shower of frogs apparently fell from the sky in 1954 and landed on Sutton Coldfield. Where else? The poor marine critters had apparently been sucked up into thunderclouds by a mini-tornado and then dumped miles away in a shower of heavy rain.

Flying fish
The same phenomenon was blamed for a shower of small flounder and Dover sole that fell to Earth in East London in May 1984. Most diverting – and handy for Billingsgate, too.

Is it a bird?
Dead birds have been known to plummet from the sky en masse, sometimes partly frozen. These are thought to have been swept up by the powerful updrafts of thundercloud and then frozen at altitude. They then drop to Earth like so many deadly oven-readies.

Ice, ice baby
Giant pieces of ice have reportedly crashed to earth in the past, the largest of which was apparently 20 feet long. This is said to have fallen on Scotland in 1849. The largest ever hailstones, however, fell on Bangladesh in 1986 - each weighed more than1kg and between them killed 92 people.

Bloody showers!
“Rains of blood” have been commonly reported since biblical times and are usually put down to some sort of divine retribution. The reality may be much more prosaic, however. In southern England in 1968 a fine red sand blew in from the Sahara before showery weather set in. The result? You guessed it – bright red rain.

Drivellers killed the radio star

All I want from the radio in the morning is a bit of contemporary music, preferably introduced by someone who tells me what I’m listening to. That’s not too much to ask, is it? But something weird and not very pleasant has happened to radio.

We used to listen to Capital before Johnny Vaughan and his Sycophants stepped in (not a lame Sixties pop group, but a loud-mouthed disc jockey with a bunch of fawning cronies). So we switched to Virgin, which is a little less irritating but seems to be stuck in a time warp. Seventies' music was OK in its day but we've moved on now, thanks.

So today we gave Radio One a try, on the assumption that it was still a music station. Why, then, did it take Chris Moyles 19 minutes to play the first song? “Disc jockey” has become a bit of a misnomer. “Drivel jockey” would be more accurate. And they no longer work alone, but in gangs of young, hip people who ramble on about how drunk they were the night before and what they did in the pizza joint afterwards. We don’t actually care if they ended up vomiting garlic bread all over the Old Kent Road at 4am. It’s not entertainment: it’s like eavesdropping on a particularly distasteful bunch of yobs.

Let's bring back the bloke who plays music and occasionally talks to you (yes, you, and not his mates in the studio). In fact come back Chris Tarrant: all is forgiven.