The death of my second-oldest friend, after whom my brother was named, has saddened me greatly. His funeral brought no closure, dominated as it was by his Rugby club with their typically macho insensitivity.

My duties as school archivist suggested a trip to Bicester to collect and take work to the school's excellent photographers, Gillman and Soame. Mild weather meant that this was uneventful, and enhanced by a short detour to a local garden centre.

The Archive Centre Christmas party, which I lay on every year for the student archivists at school, presented some interesting challenges this year because all the archivists are Muslims. One was quite concerned because he had heard that mince pies, the staple diet of the occasion, contained alcohol. I assured him that the cheap ones I buy wouldn't have a trace of it in them. Nonetheless he planned to bring some Indian food which, in the event, didn't materialise. His co-religionists were concerned about what had been 'minced'. Again, I was able to assure them that nowadays it is fruit not meat that forms the content. These assurances being given, the mince pies disappeared on the day with commendable speed!

'One off' events at this time of the year included my brother Tim's Christmas show 'Wigwam Thank You Ma'am'. Because it took place in Solihull it wasn't called a pantomime: but that's what it was. Another regular in the calendar is my old school's 'Evening of Music and Mince Pies'. This year I was joined by a 98-year-old former pupil - and his girlfriend!

After six months of tests, a young acquaintance has been told - at the age of 24 - that he almost certainly has multiple sclerosis. This news reached me on Christmas Eve, lending an added poignancy to a time which I spend remembering Christmases past and all those, no longer with us, who shared them with me. My contemplations were not helped, as I could have wished them to be, by the modern travesty of nine lessons and carols, in which the congregations are required to endure the self-indulgent performances of choirs while they are permitted but two or three opportunities to sing the traditional carols that are so loved even by secular participants.

Christmas was spent with the family. 'Secret Santa' is now an established feature of the occasion and is a very efficient way of giving worthwhile presents to a gathering of 15 souls. I was the beneficiary of a collection of terracotta plant pots, which will considerably enhance next season's auricula theatre.

An innovation this year was for us all to make a Christmas cracker. I spent more time on this than any other aspect of preparations for the day, including my infamous 'slide game' in which I inflict twenty photographs from my vast collection, and ask the partygoers to identify each.

The day was punctuated by helpless laughter, not fuelled by alcohol, over jokes impossible to understand if you weren't there. A seven year old first-cousin-twice-removed showed astounding natural pianistic talent. It is to be hoped that this can be nurtured, by someone who can afford the significant cost.

The post Christmas feeling of anti-climax was more than offset by the visit of a young Aston Old Edwardian who has befriended me, and who always makes time to see me during visits home from his new life in London. I am all the more grateful for this when I learn of others heading off next year to Rio de Janeiro and Singapore, perhaps never to return.

Significant amounts of time were spent (wasted?) struggling to produce a menu card using Word. Fortunately, it isn't required until next November, which leaves me time to find an 'expert' to rescue the situation.

The short, mostly grey, days enabled me to progress my slides digitisation project: 8238 done so far (57%). That 'greyness' means that my solar panels are taking something of a holiday, though the payment received for the first five months of generation means I can think about a holiday next year!

The thing I liked about Vaclav Havel was how uncomfortable he looked when carrying out his public duties. I wish today's leaders would show a similar humility and acknowledge that the notion that they are in control of events is a fatuous illusion.

Of all the adjectives that are associated with the phrase 'New Year', the one I won't use for 2012 is 'prosperous'!