It’s an unlikely and crude measuring stick, but I’ve always been able to tell something about my state of wellbeing from the scale of how much Christmas baking has been completed.

When I am calm and relaxed, I tend to bake. December is my favourite time to spend countless hours in the kitchen, listening to carols on my wee radio while mixing and kneading and watching steaming creations rise (or not) through the glass in the warm oven. It is something I look forward to.

When I am anxious or stressed, baking is one of the first things that falls away. I am not gifted at multi-tasking and need clarity of thought when measuring precise ingredients or working with dough.

This winter I have done almost no baking. Well, to be clear, I have made cakes and puddings, but that is the minimum that I expect of myself. I have made those items for as many years as I can remember in defiance of the logic that I know hardly anyone who likes Christmas cake or pudding. I regard it as close to an obligation.

What I mean is that I have done nothing extra. For the first time since my son was born I have been unable to find the time (so far) to make the mince pies for Santa. There are no golden cookies cooling, no steaming loaves resting and no yule logs dusted with icing sugar. There is no shortbread, focaccia, gingerbread, frosted buns or brownies. I do not have rows of little sausage rolls baked until the pastry is crisp and their intoxicating aroma fills the house and lures the family towards my kitchen.

The simple and blunt explanation for all of this is that I have been too busy. The schedule at work has been unrelenting and punishing and I’ve struggled to stay on top of it. There is a sense of desperate rush as I try to get as many tasks done as possible in the diminishing number of days left in this year. The balance of the scales in the formula of the labour which needs to be completed versus time left to do it never seems to be in my favour. At moments I have felt like a beleaguered James Stewart in It’s A Wonderful Life, as I’ve stumbled madly from one crisis to the next.

Another factor is how I react to this adversity. I live with the constant guilt that I am not doing enough, not organised or accomplished enough to balance it all out. My son has asked a couple of times when we are doing the mince pies and I have a low feeling as I have to keep knocking it back.

The feeling of disorder extends well beyond the kitchen. There are presents not bought and some of the items I have ordered online now seem unlikely to arrive in time. This leads to the additional horror of potentially having to plan a trip to the shops at a time when I know they will be horrendously busy. I shudder at the memory of going to Marks and Spencer last year on Christmas Eve and feeling that I would be lucky to escape those packed aisles with my sanity or life intact.

The sense of adversity around Christmas in 2025 seems to have taken on a life of its own. The opening bookend of my festive celebrations is usually attendance at the little village carol service to count down the lights on the tree being turned on. This December that event was more or less wiped out by a storm which brought fierce wind and horizontal driving rain.

Then there is the expected visit to the Christmas market where I will spend silly money on foot-long hot-dogs for my son and myself. A combination of the poor weather and my long working hours has made this family routine impossible also.

To summarise it all, I am a bit frazzled. I have no residual middle-aged male pride which prevents me from admitting that. Past issues with mental health have alerted me to the need for vigilance and the importance of being able to communicate it when I see the first signs of an equilibrium interruption.

The truth is that my own character has always been my enemy. Like the sponge, I absorb pressure but am not expert at finding an outlet for it. I think of the sleepless nights I have had recently, worrying about not having done enough, not given enough of myself to live up to the expectations of what a perfect family Christmas should be like.

Like Scrooge, I know that we all have our own ways of keeping Christmas and ideas of what it should be, but it definitely should not be like this. I have to find a way to let go of the stress. If the bar is set so high that I cannot manage to jump over, then the only choice is to go under it.

The presents may not be wonderful this year, the hampers more spartan than previously. There may not be the aroma of sausage rolls or freshly baked loaves in the kitchen. I may not be able to spend hours grating blocks of cocoa to create my special homemade drinking chocolate. It doesn’t matter.

Because the one thing that will not be in short supply in my own house or any of those I visit this Christmas will be love. As The Troggs, and to lesser effect Wet, Wet, Wet, sang, it will be all around. If there is a sensible Christmas message for me, perhaps it is to be thankful for what is already there.

On Christmas Eve night my wife, son and I will put on the festive pyjamas, light the fire, sip on drinking chocolate (shop bought?) and watch the Muppet Christmas Carol. It is my favourite time of the year and I can’t wait. It is more than enough.

Happy Christmas to everyone.

• First appeared in the News Letter