I can understand how, in attracting customers, a restaurant may wish to make a dish seem more alluring. One dessert that has hook in its name is "Death by Chocolate". I have witnessed friends salivating with the mere thought of the ultimate demise. I wonder whether "Death by jellied eel in sow's stomach" has as much appeal. In the wee small hours, when naming a cocktail, the most ridiculous and obscene thing may appear best. We have all giggled with childish delight when a drunken office worker demands from a bored bartender, " ... three Orgasms for me and me mates". But why call a cocktail an Orgasm? It doesn't look, taste, or feel like an orgasm, although very occasionally (and I stress very occasionally), it may lead to one.

We live in a world where language and meaning are heading in different directions. Where Opium can be bought over a perfume counter. Where a child thinks an "Act of God" is a choc-coated-double-banana-tret in an ocean of peppermint cream. Last week I found myself confronted by this phenomenon several times. Looking down a menu to find an appropriate dish, I was confused. Every meal had a weird title. On the menu were words I was familiar with, but had never associated with food. The chicken stew, with pepper and caper, became Bewitchment; braised veal rolls with olives - Impulse; the hot and spicy lamb casserole - Reckless. There was Anger, Ambition, Fantasy and Fury - it'd be like eating the Gladiators.

The waiter's pad would have been a surrealist's dream, every time someone ordered bizarre poems were formed. Two Longing, a medium-rare Enchantress, one Temptation, a double Eternity holding the mayo, Reckless - not too hot, three lo-fat Utopias, water for the table, screwdriver, rusty nail! The meals arrived and a general mood of satisfaction prevailed. There was one problem: no-one had accepted the Temptation. For a minute the waitress circled the table, growing steadily more annoyed.

"Temptation? Temptation for anyone?"

Nobody moved, most were too busy getting stuck into their own plates of moral and philosophical dilemma.

"Someone ordered it. Who was it?"

"Maybe they've gone?"

Her voice became shrill with tension.

"Who wanted the Temptation?"

No one stirred and the Temptation returned from whence it came. If only all forbidden fruits could be sent back so easily to the devil's kitchen.

None of this would have been strange had it not been waiting for what happened next ...

The following day I found myself before a perfume store. Tendrils of sticky sweet odours lured me into the shop. There were slender bottles of musk, civet, lavender and flasks of essential oils. From floor to ceiling the place was filled with exotic distillations. I ran through a number of perfumes before discovering with horror, that some were last night's meals. There again were Longing, Excitement and Passion.

One perfume in particular held more promise - Fulfillment. To my surprise the tester was empty. Obviously this particular fragrance was in great demand. I battled my initial fear, turned to the nearest member of staff and asked, "Could you possibly find me a little Fulfillment?"

The staff were shocked to learn someone had forgotten to restock that particular scent. No need for concern, there would have to be some Fulfillment out that back. I heard them frantically tear apart box after box in search of it. Somewhere in this jungle of aromas, the odour du jour had gone missing. Tension rose as they searched for the scent. A whisper went round the disgruntled customers "No Fulfillment!" The woman returned, a little out of breath, a fine sweat beading on her forehead. "I'm sorry, sir," she said, "We can't find Fulfillment anywhere!"

I smiled because in my heart, I sensed she was.

It's still a few weeks away, but the warning tremors are here. There is a heightened sense of terror on the street. The desperate scramble has begun and it will not be over until well into the New Year. Statistically, more people suffer breakdowns during holidays, and Christmas takes the honours for the highest incidence of crack-ups. If your trolley is going to run off the rails, it is more likely to do so in the coming weeks than at any other time of the year.

You are the most important person in the world and, for once, you must think of yourself. You're like Santa to your family- without you, there is no Yuletide joy. You are the passport to fun, the source of all understanding. Don't expect your family to notice you falling apart, they're too busy trying to buy you presents. It is one of the greatest riddles of Christmas that we are so concerned with being generous, we have very little time for kindness. You could be wearing a tutu, urinating into the salad and no one would notice.

You have worked hard this year and you deserve a rest. The days grow shorter as your list of commitments grow longer. A few more hurdles and the end of the year is in sight. On the horizon, a golden crest of glorious sunshine beckons. Christmas is coming and another year is condemned to memory. The time has come to let the sun kiss away the tears of anguish and to dance upon the edge of rainbows. I tell you: don't be a fool!

You can't wind down- you have got to stay tense. No! You can't afford to be tense. Why? Because everyone relies on you. But the mere fact everyone relies on you makes you tense. Admit you're tense. You're that poor, sad-looking Christmas tree in the corner. Each piece of tinsel, each tiny wooden Santa, every coloured ball, drags your branches even lower. Overloaded with baubles, bound by flashing lights and unbalanced, you are about to topple into the middle of the lounge.

The reason we experience trauma over Christmas is because we believe we can relax. I tell you solemnly- do not relax. The only way to avoid a fall is to convince yourself the hurdles keep coming. When the last hurdle is in sight, conjure another in your mind. As you approach that one, imagine another. Keep this up for the rest of your life. There is one consolation for this method- you'll die young.

Stay alert! In every store, carols attempt to lull you into a false sense of security. Beware! These songs are a rallying call to misery. You are salivating at the thought of turkey and cranberry sauce. It is a recipe for disaster. To protect yourself and your family you must continue to set yourself hurdles and, whatever else you do, do not relax.

Trust me, because four days ago I relaxed and three days ago the wheels fell of my trolley.

Three days ago, the face that greeted me in the mirror was not my own. A hideous creature loomed before me. Two dark, black bags dragged my eyes down to my cheek. My cheek had collapsed into my neck. My neck was hiding in my chest. My stubble was like sandpaper. I had accidentally sprayed Baygon on my toothbrush. At every turn, malevolent forces conspired against me.

The bus was late, so I took a cab. The cab driver didn't seem to be in the same city as me. I was sweating, my heart was grey from worry. It was failing in its sole function- to keep me alive until the festive season. The lift was out, so I took the stairs. I had a continual headache. It was behind my eyeball, threatening to push the pulsing orb out the socket and onto my cheek.

I know it isn't a tumor. It can't be. I haven't got time for a tumour. There's a small in the house I can't locate. Someone keeps calling a 4.23 in the morning. I have been urinating into my salad.

I type this letter with a pencil attached to my forehead at a major metropolitan hospital.

Merry Christmas.

That joyous time is here again. That time of peace on earth and goodwill to all men* and universal happiness and unbridled greed. Just a few more days to discover how much you are loved.

It is unrealistic to equate emotion with expenditure, but it is something we all do. As the presents are handed out from under the tree, our minds are engaged in mathematical gymnastics. How much was that? Where was it found? Were there many others like it? At Christmas there are numerical equations that indicate how much you are cared for, how much you are loved. The cost of the item (gift) over the income of the giver (approx) multiplied by the amount of time spent searching is equal to the sum of their affection. With certain items, say a pair of pajamas, I wouldn't even bother with the maths

Christmas is a terrifying time, when we tread a tightrope between lose and gain, love and hate. It is a time of judgment and assessment. It is a time of defining ourselves in relation to others and we do this by comparing. Comparing what we got to what they got. You gave a state-of-the-art handmade juicer from Dusseldorf that took two weeks to find, she gave a pair of nylon mix socks from Target. The juicer was $628 less $2.50 for the socks- that comes to a loss of $625.50.

It is an awkward situation, but just as awkward the other way around. You're suddenly aware that the giver has greater regard for you than you previously thought. You should also be aware they are simultaneously discovering, as they rip open the wrapping of a bargain basement CD of 70's love songs (**) you picked up at the newsagent, that you couldn't give a toss about them. It is a time for questions. How many items of rubbish can I grab at the $2 shop, put in a box and send to the relatives I never see to make it appear I care? Can I make a family of five happy for $10 including postage?

And though you are loath to admit it, it is a time for getting what you want. In the months preceding the big day you've hinted at the perfect gift. You thought you were subtle, casually dropping the name of the object into every conversation for the past three months. You discussed your favourite colour, left notes on the fridge, when the ad appeared on TV you fainted with desire. If you had written it in blood on your forehead it couldn't have been more obvious.

Then the moment of truth arrives when you tear away the wrapping paper and the gift is not quite what you were expecting. The look of sadness that slurries across your face is impossible to disguise. That pretense of a smile curling into a sneer. The moisture in the corner of your eyes. That interminable silence as the room awaits your reaction. There is only one response you can ever make: "I love it! WOW! Who would have thought of that for a present? A batik handbag and a plastic folding straw-look sunhat. Only you Nan, only you could have got me that." Even when given the option of an easy out we fail to take it. How often have you stood there inanely smiling while a voice says, "if it doesn't fit you can take it bake, or swap it for something you like".

You want to be honest but you find yourself lying. "No, it looks great on me!" You long to say, in as gentle way as possible, "it's the wrong colour, the wrong size, I hate it! Get me something decent! I don't care if its 11am on Christmas Day. Take it back! How could you think, even in your most deluded fantasy, that I would think that this is attractive?" Your mind is screaming, "It's crap!" But the words that dribble out of your mouth are "no, no, it's fine. It'll stretch".

With all this talk about buying presents and the cost of living, you may think I have lost the Christmas spirit. You may think I have forgotten the true meaning of the festive season. And you're right, Christmas is not about buying things, its about selling them at outlandishly high prices.

* This is a sadly archaic phrase that does not extend "goodwill" to all our sisters.

** Not by the original artists.

Have you looked in the mirror lately? You look haggard! Not just haggard, a year older, as if a year passed last night and left you in its wake. So do not look in the mirror.

There is no more dangerous time of year. The parties can make or break you socially, so it is essential you paced yourself. An early dash, though much admired, could leave you drained and unable to be the star attraction at the big one, which should have been your focus. Never lose sight of that ball falling in New York. The sheer joy, the excitement, the countdown, and if you're not there the next day you won't be able to forget what you don't want to remember from the previous night.

Hopefully by now you will have completed the obligatory office functions. The ones you say you hate ("It's work, they expect me. I get no enjoyment out of this either. This is a no-fun zone for me too, you know!") And every year there you are.

At some point in the evening, you look around to find the sedate world you inhabit during the week has gone out of control. In one corner, men and women in party hats enact scenes from Sodom and Gomorrah with photocopiers taking the place of goats. Mrs Somebody, a simmering cauldron of repressed sexuality, is dancing lasciviously with a gawky post-baby boomer on a co-worker's desk.

You drink a glass of water that someone has flicked their ash in and come to the conclusion that all water is bad for you. The teetotaler's are consuming the most alcohol, the "quiet ones" are talking your ear off and the girl that "always has a smile on her face" is crying in the corner. A conversation a year in the making is occurring, the protagonists are shocked, but everyone else is glad it finally happened. The guy everyone hates breaks down and says he's sorry and the office forgives him, for a second, until they regroup and recall how repulsive he is.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in a darkened window, but manage to turn away before any real damage is done. As you leave you find yourself saying in all honesty, "What a great night! Hope it's as good next year!" Then the big one. New Year's Eve. In one swift act of purging, we rid ourselves of the old skin of '97 and prepare to struggle into the soft new skin of '98. We normally manage to do this by staying up all night and losing any sense of decency. Old Father Time bows out and the Child of Time, fresh from the crib, is already aging rapidly.

We manage to blot out this "passing of time" with the convenient memory loss that over-indulgence brings. We see the night as a disjointed series of events. There is never any coherent story, just one disaster after another. Spilled drinks, forgotten names, accidental meetings, lost friends, bad jokes that lead us in a dizzy rush to the countdown. Followed swiftly by the disgusting feeling of being kissed by total strangers on the stroke of midnight. Or even worse, on the stroke of midnight, being steadfastly avoided by total strangers. While everywhere around you people abandon themselves, you're left standing, lips untouched.

The hours fly till dawn. When you come to there's always streamers and confetti on the floor. A few days later you inevitably find something in you pocket. You don't know when it got there or, more importantly, how it got there and you're too ashamed to even look at it.

In the last 24 hours you've committed at least four of the seven deadly sins that you can't remember enough to enjoy. You greet the first day of January in a darkened room because overnight you've become light-sensitive. And, although you were warned, you look at yourself in a mirror and discover you have become a walking, talking, all-singing, all-dancing version of your own death. You're the monster from the bottom of the bottle coming up for air. As you peer into you're eyes, the mirror of your soul; you see shattered glass and read "you are truly alone" scratched into your retina. What I recommend is closing your eyes for a while and going to sleep because tonight...