It is approaching Christmas: that time of year when those in charge of provisioning become worse hoarders than the squirrels.

The kitchen cupboards and larders, normally so no-nonsense and utilitarian, begin to sport packages and tins which silently wheedle those who catch sight of them, full of unfulfilled promise. Their day will come: the Christmas pudding; the box of chocolate biscuits; the family packs of crisps and jars of exotic olives and pickles.

And, indeed, the box of savoury crackers.

I have been buying up these little luxuries in good time for Christmas, squirreling them away, finding quiet backwaters in which to post them so they lurk like Gollum at the back of their caves, watching with huge eyes for the moment they will become topical. Preciousssss.

As chief provisioner, however, I am the only one who knows the true worth of these items, and the advantage gained by saving each one for its allotted time.

No-one else knows how much they cost, or what financial advantage I gained by purchasing them early, before Christmas was a twinkle in December’s eye.

And so imagine my chagrin when I went downstairs late one night to find Phil had been indulging in a little more than an abstemious cup of tea and a late-night apple.

There, before me, was the bright orange Christmas box of savoury crackers. And the top was furtively dislodged.

Further investigation revealed that a champion late night snacker had decimated much of the top layer of the biscuits, which, had they not been disturbed, would have been put out with a glass of sherry for Santa Claus on the merry 24th.

With breathtaking sleight-of-mouth, Phil had spirited away the aforementioned festive delights a full sixteen days before they were due to become a part of Santa’s generous girth.

Talk about a pre-emptive strike. Have some sherry, why don’t you.

Another member of our household is becoming more surreptitious by the second during these dark December days.

Macaulay does not approve of dark evenings, and dark mornings. As the darkest day of our year approaches, beating Santa to our doors by three days, the dog’s walks are mere cruel parodies of their Summertime counterparts.

This dog is a Porsche inside a Mini’s chassis. He must, imperatively, have lots of off-lead rampaging. His very muscles demand it; his slack ill-disciplined ears cry out for those wide open spaces.

And when he is spurned there is nothing humble or compliant about him. He is bent on a very particular kind of revenge. And he will have his way.

Macaulay is the unlikely love-child of an extremely unusual liaison. One day, about six years ago, an upstart of a miniature Schnauzer shinned up the proverbial high tower of a winsome, golden-haired King Charles Spaniel. Or the breeds may have been in reverse order; the exact details of his provenance are as hazy as the odourous halo which surrounds him.

No matter. The point is this: Schnauzers steal stuff for fun.

The blood of a thief runs strong in this odd little half-breed. This call of the wild is more insistent, by far, when walks are curt and fun is in slightly shorter supply than usual.

Macaulay is not a tidy dog. When he steals, he seems blase and unconcerned about clearing up the evidence of his crime. Not for him, eating the plastic bag.

Yesterday it was a sandwich bag, bereft of its ham sandwiches. Felix’s packed lunch would have been a shadow of its former self  if I had not acted swiftly to rectify Mac’s sorry crime.

And today, even worse.I left the cheese too close to the side of the kitchen surface. When we arrived home he had polished off a goodly amount before opting to leave the rest of the happily mauled package for his loving family on their return.

I’m not sure the dog sees his acts as pre-empting his evening meal: but you may be assured that no such meal has been forthcoming, and the dog languishes with bad grace on his cushion, plotting his next sortie with absolutely no repentance whatsoever.

Next to him towers the Christmas tree, and underneath a growing mountain of flamboyantly wrapped gifts.

Big Al finds this a trial. My nephew is three, and pre-emption is his middle name. The act of delaying gratification is simply not a part of his current developmental stage. To him, one sees a present, one charges towards the present, one denudes it: and if, by any wondrous coincidence, the present is edible, one consumes it in the shortest time possible, and then looks for the next present.

So: no presents under Al’s tree right now.

The most stealthy pre-emption of this season must surely be the early experience of Christmas itself: that decision to wake at an unearthly hour, which has only just bade farewell to midnight, and creep down to the tree to inspect Christmas day at first quarters.

Such pre-emption is the starting point for one of the most bizarre Christmas tales, held in great affection. The early riser is called Clara, and she is up to inspect her poor wounded Nutcracker toy, which takes the form of a gallant soldier.

Slavic to the core, this tale, though clothed in the language of the 19th century and dripping with Tchaikovsky’s splendid score. Just as Clara has scurried back to bed a King Mouse and his army burst in. And blow me, here’s the cavalry: a set of gingerbread soldiers.

Led by the Nutcracker, the gingerbread men save the day.

The second act is frankly astonishing. One might conjecture that hallucinogenic substances contributed to its conception: but when have the Russians ever needed any extra help to come up with the wildly fantastical? Almost in the manner of an Elizabethan masque, fantasies on the theme of confectionery and geography hover past. And when the final curtain has come down, and one walks out into the frosty air, it is impossible to shake off the feeling of palpable unreality which pads at one’s side.

Half the fun of Christmas, or indeed any festival, is the waiting and the preparation.

But the impulse to bring it forward runs deep in our bones. I have no doubt that even you, Dear Reader, can remember the guilty pleasure of one such snatched moment.

Phil enjoyed his midnight feast, Macaulay his cheese, and for Clara pre-emption brought a cornucopia of new experiences.

But a little pre-emption goes a long way. And, unlike the subjects of this post: it is best to avoid being found out.