22/12/07 As anybody dipping into this 'blog' must have already surmised, this has not, thus far, been a happy Christmas. Readers of the future (for whom this record is primarily intended) will probably wonder why my best intentioned efforts were so strenuously resisted. "Why did Coe even bother with these numbskulls?" they'll ask when presented with yet another example of ingratitude. "Everything he offers is thrown back in his face." I don't, of course, expect everyone to go around shouting "Hats off to Hamilton Coe!" It's the visionary's lot to be resented and misunderstood. In certain instances, I expect the future reader might even conclude that I was at fault, but is an occasional error of judgement sufficient cause to be ostracised and elected Rat of the Year?

I'm not normally given to brooding over slights and insults. While other people might endlessly regurgitate the specifics of who said what to whom, I'm happy to commit the information to a dossier and move on (unless, of course, some subsequent offence compels me to refer to the relevant file.) My disposition is essentially sunny, but even my forbearance has its limits. While I don't demand deference, I think I'm entitled to be treated with respect. I am, after all, the most celebrated psychic of my generation. In September, I received an invitation to participate in Bravo's Celebrity Wink Murder with Yvette Fielding. Despite a tempting fee that might have covered the Foundation's expenses for the early part of 2008, I turned the offer down without a second thought. "I'm afraid I spend Christmas with my family and friends," I explained, little suspecting that my family and friends would repay my devotion by excluding me and holding me responsible for every conceivable glitch.

For the rest of the holiday, I've decided to counter indifference with indifference and suit myself. Tonight, for example, I planned to go take Muriel to Drumfeld Museum to listen to Billy Ure's Dark Maestro recital. My public support, I thought, would at least bolster his credibility. Billy, however, having already squandered every opportunity I offered him and ultimately rejected me in favour of a numbskull and a termagant, didn't even have the good grace to respond to my Christmas card. Why then should I sit and listen to him droning on about the Ghost of Spooky Manor? He's lucky I don't bill him for the wasted card and the Picador's buckled wheel. When I phoned Muriel to cancel, Christine told me that she'd already gone out with her friends for the night. "It was good of her to let me know," I said before hanging up. Maybe I should write about ghosts. I know exactly how they must feel.

Instead of going to the museum, I settled down to watch It's a Wonderful Life. Until my Grandpa Sneddon's death, he and I watched the movie every Christmas. That I've persisted in the ritual is a tribute to his memory and testament to the redemptive power of kindness. This year, the effect was soured by my mood. For whatever reason, I was irritated by George Bailey's response to impending disaster. "Get a grip on yourself," I muttered as he staggered toward self-destruction. "There are more important things than money!" For the first time, it occurred to me that if anyone should have been perched on the edge of a bridge it was surely George's uncle whose fecklessness had precipitated the crisis. What reassuring vision, if any, I wondered would Clarence the apprentice angel have been able to conjure up of his non-existence?

As the film approached Clarence's critical intervention, I was interrupted by the arrival of Spencer and Colette. Both were intoxicated but neither had reached the belligerent stage. Colette even offered me the briefest of kisses before burrowing into her bag for a jar of coffee. "I know how much you like fancy coffee," she said. "So I thought you might like this." It seemed indelicate to point out that the 'fancy' coffee I enjoy is specially imported from Italy while her jar of Alta Rica is a) undrinkable and b) available in any supermarket. It was a nice gesture, of course, unless it was intended as my Christmas present in which case, considering our respective roles as guest and host, it's meagre to say the least. Before I had time to compose a response appropriate to either eventuality, she'd been distracted by the paused picture on the t.v. screen. "Oh! You're watching It's a Wonderful Life!"

"Hamilton and I used to watched this with our Grandpa," said Spencer. This was a lie. While never specifically excluded from the ritual, Spencer's presence was, nonetheless, discouraged. He would have ruined the film with questions and complaints that he was bored. I didn't bother contradicting him, though. If anything, I was touched and surprised that he'd want to include me in any imaginary scene from our shared childhood. "Were you pretending you're George Bailey?"

"Of course not," I said. On reflection, this seemed brusque, so I added, "If I had been, though, you'd be dead...." I immediately realised that this has been the wrong thing to say. I can't always anticipate what Spencer might consider an appropriate subject for humour. His stricken expression indicated that my allusion to Colette's attempt on his life had been a faux pas. "I rescued him from an icy pond when we were younger," I improvised.

"That was in the film," said Colette flatly.

"I'm sorry," I said, feigning bewilderment. "Isn't that what we were talking about? I think I might need a mug of this coffee...." Noting Colette's uncertainty, I made my excuses and left the room, closing the door firmly behind me. From the snatches of their subsequent conversation I was able to decipher from the hall, it was apparent that I'd managed to retrieve the situation. Their initial hushed, urgent exchange gradually gave way to more measured speech patterns and, eventually, laughter. I lingered for five minutes or so until I heard Colette say, "Do you think he's still there?" at which point I quietly made my way to my room.