I have just received my first Christmas card of 2009.

Every year, like the first Fererro Rocher TV advert, it turns up ridiculously early. Always from the same people. Why they feel it necessary to send seasonal greetings in November, I will never know. Perhaps it's to give slackers like myself more time to get organised and return the sentiment.

Don't get me wrong...I love to hear from them...it's the ‘Here comes Christmas - ready or not' wake-up call I'd rather not be reminded of.

Have you sent yours yet? Please say you haven't.

Christmas cards are a minefield. That's why we put them off until the last minute. So many things to get wrong. Nuances to miss. Tones to blow. Names to forget. Connections to confuse.

I make the same mistake every year. I procrastinate until the last moment, so that the only cards left in the shops are the most sickly and saccharine, cheapo chocolate-boxy junk...that merely express with great eloquence ‘Happy Christmas from a tasteless loser. You are so lucky your only contact with me is through the medium of poor quality greeting cards.'

I torture myself by imagining them opening the mail over organic croissants and a large cafetiere of Fair Trade Arabica;

‘Who is this from? My God...it's from Mya. It's not on recycled card... it isn't affiliated to any charity. It's not Tate Modern. Not Banksy. Not even V&A. I feel slightly sick.'

‘Let me see. Ugh! Kittens in a stocking...please tell me she's being ironic...for her sake... she's living in France... so we're not likely to bump into her. Phew!'

And what do you write inside a Christmas card?

Too much, and you risk boring the reader...too little and you can drive them mad with cryptic ambiguities. Scrawled messages such as ‘Things much better now...coping well...problems all behind us,' are bordering on cruel to an Olympic-level nosey parker like myself.

It's a very difficult balance to strike. There is nothing more annoying than opening a card that reveals precisely nothing apart from who sent it. If you haven't seen them for a long time...aren't they likely to have some news? It's nice to be kept in touch...otherwise...you begin to wonder what's the point in continuing the correspondence?

One solution to this problem is to write an annual family newsletter which you print out and pop in with every card. I must admit, I have never been a fan of these. Probably because of the mild humiliations dealt by my parents' letters over the years. Amongst details of all the academic, marital and social successes of my sisters, I was usually afforded a bland paragraph buried somewhere at the end: 'Mya is still searching for her way in life...but she seems to be happy. We are very proud of her.' Followed by an unwritten ‘Despite everything.'

I have painful memories of being regaled by my mother with the newsletters of family friends...

‘Ooh listen to this! It says Anthony, you know their eldest boy...he's a neuro-surgeon in Geneva. And Poppy? Remember the fat one we used to call Porky-pops? She's pounding the Milan catwalks...as a model, no less. And their youngest...with the sweaty hands...the one who had a crush on you..he's just been awarded the Nobel Prize for...'

I forget now...but you get the picture.

Another card always fascinating to receive is the one featuring the family photo. I have been known to study these for hours, comparing and contrasting the double chins, wrinkles and thickened thighs of my contemporaries, with my own. Obsessing over the neatness of their perfect children and dog. Wondering why life hasn't chosen to reward me with garlanded mantelpieces crowded with invitations.

It may have something to do with the card-shaped catastrophes I have doggedly posted over the years. When it comes to sending the perfect Christmas card, there is only one thing I feel confident about. It is not just the thought that counts...it's way more important than that.