An economic thing I forgot to mention about my trip to France: the French, as you know, are socialists to the bone. They work a six-hour week and their economy, as a result, is worth less than the cost of this newspaper. They have a tiny leader with an intolerably self-promoting sex kitten for a wife (she can be seen nude all over the Internet, if you like that sort of thing). If you're one of those people who doesn't like Dr. Brown, think how much less you'd like him if he were four foot six and married to Paris Hilton.

But that's not what I came here to tell you. The law-happy French have decided that supermarkets may no longer give customers grocery bags - paper, plastic or anything else. As a result, a grand comedy plays out in the parking lots of French supermarkets everywhere. You buy 1,100 items; you then have to push your cart to your car and unload every single item one at a time into the trunk. At home, the reverse applies.

Following the election of Mr. Obama, we are all now going to be socialists. (Contrary to what you may have misheard, I would have voted for him - if I'd had a vote, and if I'd been in the country at the time, and if I hadn't been too busy unpacking my groceries to vote, and if I were a socialist.) Sooner or later, Bermuda will pass an anti-bagging law. It's good for the environment, although in my case, I'd have to start buying bags into which to put my trash, thus destroying the environment. The good news is that it takes so long to load and unload the car that by the time you get done, you're too tired to eat and so have to go to bed, thus saving food costs.

Just another glimpse of the future presented to you at no extra charge.

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As you might be able to tell from the preceding, I've been finding it very hard to get motivated lately. The reason is the onset of recession. Mostly, it's the share prices. I've "lost a lot of dough", money I had worked extremely hard to earn and save. I completely understand that many people are worse off than me. I have done better than Hank Greenberg, whom I know and like. I am doing better than anyone who has lost his or her job. I get all that, and I am deeply grateful for it.

But I'm finding out why they call it a depression. I'm bummed out. I know that stock prices can go up as well as down; I know that in due course, I'll probably gain back much of what I have lost; I know that economic cycles happen. I say all that partly so that others who feel the same way won't feel quite so alone.

I did work out at one point that, actually, I hadn't lost anything. I still have exactly the same number of shares that I had before their value halved. I have the same number of dollars and pounds; my apartment has the same number of bricks and windows, even if its value has fallen by a quarter in dollar terms alone.

So, I'm not actually any worse off, yet I feel down. I'm fed up on behalf of everyone else with all the reports of job losses and industry collapses and blighted futures and bailouts. I'm equally fed up with how pleased the BBC is that the American economy has tanked. I'm just fed up.

Christmas is coming, and that might brighten your thinking. I, on the other hand, detest Christmas and everything about it. Thank goodness I haven't got any money to spend on gifts, not that it matters, because I hate everyone and don't do Christmas anyway. Each year, around December 20, I dig a hole in my back yard, jump in, cover myself with dirt and wait until January. So, to cheer us all up, I shall now tell my one and only Christmas joke. I may have told it last year, in which case telling it today makes this an annual tradition. Hell, I may have told it last week; my memory is shot. Here we go.

Three men appear at the Pearly Gates. St. Peter arrives, and explains that since it is the Christmas season, he will suspend the usual rules. He says that if any of the men can show him something having to do with the Christmas season, he will grant them entry to heaven.

The first man searches his pockets and comes up empty. He scratches his head, and some dandruff falls on his collar. "Aha!" he says. "Snow!" St. Peter waves him into the promised land.

The second man has also been frantically searching though his pockets. Inspired by the first man's inventiveness, he whips his keys out of his pocket, shakes them in the air, and says: "Jingle bells?" St. Peter ushers him in.

The third man is completely lost. He checks each pocket, time and again, and finally, in resignation, he pulls out a pair of ladies' underpants.

"Um, what does that have to do with Christmas?" St. Peter asks.

There's a pause. Then the man says: "They're Carol's."