BETWIXTMAS WITH FRANK

Do they normally play music in Sainsbury's? I walked round this morning and they were piping in some sort of crooning mixtape. Clearly the Christmas playlist has been shelved until next November, so all that's left is Sainsbury's Sinatra, who presumably 'lived well for less'.

But as I stood there in the tea aisle, I did wonder whether they play music throughout the year, and even more, I wondered how it was that I just couldn't remember.

This is what Betwixtmas does to you. Nobody has much idea about what day it is. I logged on to Skype this morning, half-expecting Louise to ask me a question from the office. I had no concept that it was a bank holiday. Then I spent the rest of the day wobbling about with a paint roller and a step-ladder.

I guess I understand Sainsbury's Sinatra in some ways. It was mellow, sort of Christmassy but definitely not as jingly as the music that's been playing everywhere for the last few weeks. That kind of thing is definitely like mince pies - warm and festive at first, but as soon as you've had too many, the thought of one more is just enough to make you sick. Somewhere in a Midlands home for elderly pop stars, Shakin' Stevens and Noddy are Holder chuckling into their cocoa, but the rest of us are quite happy to go without it for the next eleven months.

And yet before we all link arms and sing Auld Lang Syne to the sound of a thousand fireworks, the whole thing is not quite over. Into that gap goes Ol' (Slightly) Blue Eyes with his fireside strings and swelling vocals, reminding us that in Betwixtmas, even he hasn't got a clue what day it is.

By the fourth day of Christmas

I was going up the wall

I was thinking that my true love

Didn't love me much at all

The partridge that she'd sent me

Did its business everywhere

And the turtle doves were wilting

From the stench of rotting pear

The hens were eating croissants

In a continental daze 

And whenever came the moment

They would sing La Marseillaise

So, sitting in the kitchen

With the door shut tight and locked

I was staring at the oven

When I heard the postman's knock

"'Ere take these blighters off me,"

He said, handing me a box

And I'd never hoped more truly

That a gift were Christmas socks

But buried in the packing

(For my true love never fails)

Were one, two, three, four tiny birds

A small quartet of quails

On the fourth day of Christmas

My six became a ten

I looked the postman in the eye:

"Please don't come back again."