I’M BACK from the Perkins’ family jaunt in Spain. In Gran Canaria, just as in Kendal, the shops and houses are gearing up for Christmas.

The palm trees have been covered in gold tinsel and the streets we strolled down were lined with huge, red poinsettia plants.

There were dozens of fat santa statues and reindeer models dotted around the bars and taverns . Some were dainty, hand painted and pretty, while my favourites had rotating arms and flashed in 30 different colours.

You can’t beat a good bit of tacktastic Christmas frippery.

It was all good to see, and my week in the sun was fantastic, but it was only when I’d stepped off the plane back in good old England and driven back into the refrigerated North that the festive season truly began.

Because it is only in the freezing cold, sleet, ice and dark can you really do justice to the yuletide thing.

Think of the songs. You can’t sing when you’re in a foreign sub-tropical ‘paradise rubbing on factor 30 sunscreen – I mean ‘Walking in a winter wonderland’ just isn’t the same and ‘Let it snow’ loses all meaning.

Singing ‘I’m dreaming of a white Christmas’ in Spain just makes you sound ungrateful. Nope, I reckon we are better off here.

In South Lakeland, mulled wine is not just tasty but, in minus temperatures, it also brings back feeling to frozen fingertips.

Mince pies are a key way to add extra winter coverage, so my dad informs me. And Christmas lights help you get by when it goes dark at 2.35pm.

Back in our Kendal flat, we’ve put up our own little Christmas tree, complete with austerity poundshop lighting and enough glittery baubles to kill a man.

We may be living like a community of moles, feeling our way through total darkness in the hope that we can make it to spring, but at least we’ve got the festive style down to an art.