When I was a young boy I loved Christmas. The snow, the scent of evergreen in the house, the color and the lights . . . I loved it all. Then the jewelry store began to play Christmas carols and seasonal songs on a loudspeaker that could be heard all over our small town. I liked that too for about fifteen or twenty minutes. After that, I wanted the loudspeaker torn out, the playing of White Christmas banned, and Irving Berlin killed in front of me where I could see it happen. It turned Christmas into an audible torment, and its carols into those fever dream tunes you can't get out of your head.

I can only imagine the resentment of a citizen of Edinburgh, whose eyes and ears are assaulted day in and day out along the Royal Mile by a cacophony that has turned the atmosphere of that great city into something to be avoided. Were I that citizen, I would have long since been moved to action for which I would probably have been arrested and for which I should confess to Father Bill . . . only I wouldn't confess it. I would brag about it.