The infantilism of Advent calendars for grown-ups

Long ago and far away, small children used to arm-wrestle their siblings for the privilege of opening a door in a cardboard Advent calendar. It was reward enough to find a picture of an angel or an awestruck donkey. How quaint that now seems. Because then Cadbury saw an opportunity and launched an alternative calendar, with little chocolate inducements. I mean, which would you choose, the donkey or a chocolate button? It was a no-brainer.

Childhood, which used to end around the time you were tall enough to reach a clocking-in machine, now drifts on and on. Grown men forget to leave home, women in their fifties buy colouring books, and we are all exhorted to cosset our inner infant. Treat yourself. Go on, you know you deserve it. One logical outcome of this creeping infantilisation is the Advent calendar for grown-ups containing, say, 24 tots of gin.

Advent — or, as it is now called, the Run-Up to the Big Day — was formerly a time for contemplation and perhaps a bit of patient, watchful abstinence. Even if you didn’t subscribe to the story of the Nativity, you understood that a feast ceases to be a feast if it is preceded by weeks of indulgence. But no more.

I mention the 24 gins of Advent, but it is a random choice. It could be teabags or beard-grooming oils. Or gourmet popcorn, an oxymoron if ever there was one. Socks, even. No fewer than 25 pairs of. That Advent ends at midnight on Christmas Eve is, I suppose, a minor quibble. You can never have too many socks.

How about some slime? Twenty-four little tubs of it, for hours of creative Advent fun and, perhaps, stress relief.