Hi everyone. My name is Melissa and I hate Christmas. There, I’ve said it and let all the wrath of Rudolph “rein” down on me, I don’t care. To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever been much of a festive fan. It probably dates back to when I discovered three of my mother’s nylon stockings, minus the suspenders but crammed to the toes with tiny parcels wrapped in cheap Christmas paper, hidden under my parents’ bed. I didn’t need to be one of the Wise Men to realise that the stockings had not been put there by Father Christmas. They had actually been put there by Mother Christmas who was probably too exhausted after individually wrapping 137 cheap plastic toys, not to mention the packets of sweet cigarettes (it was the 1960s) and the cut-price satsumas, to look for a better hiding place. I hope Santa is wearing flame proof trousers . But why, you ask yourself, as you force down that final crumb of your Waitrose All Butter Mince Pie (other mince pies etc etc), would anyone hate Christmas? We