AND they're off. Granny's taken an early lead, grandad's still on the starting line but, oh what's this? Mum's coming up on the outside with a late bid for the winning post -- but, no, granny takes it after all.

Oops, sorry, just got a bit carried away.

Don't pay any attention to my attempts at being a racing commentator at the start of the Grand National or Gold Cup either, it's just how I feel today. Like a horse at the start of a race.

Only it's not a quick dash, oh no, it's a gruelling, long, tiring event that has killed people before now.

And if you haven't already guessed, let me explain exactly what I'm talking about. The Annual Christmas Stakes. The Festive Cup. The Holiday Hurdles.

And it's ridiculous.

I mean, it's only October 20 and everybody's already going mad for tinsel and turkey weekends.

It gets earlier each year too. In fact, I'm almost positive I didn't write anything about Christmas until at least November last year.

But, whether you like it or not, we're now firmly rooted in the two month run-up to the big day. And how do I know? Well, easy.

Because I've already been forced to sort out exactly what I will be doing with almost military precision so I know -- and more importantly so does everyone else -- where I will be and with whom to practically the nearest nano-second from 00.00 hours, December 1.

It's a nightmare isn't it?

I mean, how can anyone really say what they will be doing in two months time?

It's like that pointless question you always get asked at job interviews. You know the one that goes: "And, Miss Wright, where exactly do you see yourself in five years time?" Unless I'm keeping plans to emigrate to Australia quiet, I don't see the point in that. There's really no answer either.

I mean, if you say you're thinking of doing this, that or the other with bells on you're going to look like some control freak who has carefully mapped out life.

On the other hand, reply with any murmur of a blank expression and you just look a complete numbty with no direction or purpose in life.

So what do you do?

To be honest, I never know what I'm going to end up doing tomorrow night, so how I'm supposed to say where I'll be age 30, God only knows.

I mean, I've loads to do between now and Christmas before you start on the rest of my life -- so any plans I do have are always made with a short but carefully worded disclaimer regarding a get out clause anyway.

It's like yes, I can come unless the weather is bad, I'm ill or the day ends in a y.

You see, I always think I might say I'm going to do something, like make Christmas dinner for my family, but as I'm going to see Robbie Williams on Tuesday, I can't really guarantee I will, if you know where I'm coming from. All being well and life running according to plan for once, and I could well be on my way to life avec pop star this time next week and I can't really see myself saying, well, Robbie, I'd love to, but I've got a date with my grandad a week on Tuesday I'm afraid. But, whatever, I'll be there in the end, December 25, pinny on, sharing my selection box.

In the meantime, I'm looking forward to a weekend at a Center Parc with work, a meal out with my pals from the Lancashire Evening Telegraph and a festive pub crawl with lots of spirits on Christmas Eve.

Other than that, Christmas Day you know about, Boxing Day, New Year's Eve and New Year's Day also seem to be taken care of, so that just leaves me with Friday, December 30, between 10am and noon to sort out.

Let me know if you've any ideas. Robbie and I might pop round for drinks. And if you can submit your own festive timetable to me in writing within the next week, that would be great.