Christie-mas: Amber Margaret, Festive DetectiveBy the Pricking of my Thumbs, Murder in Mesopotamia and At Bertram's Hotel

Not being religious in any way (as you know), I have found rituals other than felling perfectly good trees and covering them in hideous lights, kissing under undergrowth, writing vacuous ugly cards, etc. to attach to the time commonly known as Christmas. I celebrate what can more accurately be described as 'Christie-mas'.

My festive ritual, chiefly undertaken during that week-that-is-unlike-any-other-week period between Christmas and new year, is a golden time of indulgence when I become Amber Margaret, Festive Detective. I can do and have done this variously: on a beach; before a fire; under a doona; in a hammock; etc, as it basically entails me chain-reading Agatha Christie novels until I am an ageing egg-headed Belgian/nosy moth ball-smelling spinster. And? I love it. It's something I believe in wholeheartedly.

This year I devoured 3 titles, one each of Jane Marple, Hercule Poirot and one Tommy & Tuppence. 'Tommy and Tuppence? Who the hell?', I hear you ask. Reasonable question, really, since they don't get much airplay, appearing in only 4 of Christie's 66 detective novels. Unlike Marple and Poirot, however, Tommy & Tuppence age over the course of their novels. Where Poirot is consistently a retired old dude, and Miss Marple is, well, naggered from the get go, over the course of their novels Tommy & Tuppence fall in love, raise a family and then, as in By the Pricking of my Thumbs, enjoy the freedom that comes with being empty nested. It's kind of nice. Anyway, I don't really rate them as detectives and the mad old lady/daft vicar routine of this book was a bit thin, but Tommy & Tuppence and their man Albert are such a cute little unit that they kind of get away with it.

I couldn't help but feel that At Bertram's Hotel was written for tv, and that Agatha fancied filming in a kind of lush hotel location, really, but it was interesting to see Jane Marple operate in an urban setting, rather than in some far flung village/sea side location. And, as usual, she smashed it. Miss Marple for President.

Now, I've said this before, but I absolutely prefer the 'indi-Christies', featuring none of the stars of the Christie-verse, and in fact, as I said after last year's Christie-mas, Poirot is possibly my least favourite. But, when one leaves one's library going too late, sometimes one is not in a position to be selective. And Murder in Mesopotamia was actually really good. Christie trained as a nurse and an apothecary during the war and her second husband was an archaeologist and when her writing draws on these lived experiences, Christie is really at her best. Poirot was, as usual, incredibly irritating, but this was an excellent example of the lady at her craft.

But, and here we get to the scene where everyone is in the drawing room, waiting with bated breathe for the murderer to be revealed, something very unusual happened this Christie-mas. I had finished the three novels and picked up The Labours of Hercules. I hadn't appreciated this during my frenzied grab at the library, but this was a book of short stories. Shortly after I started reading, I realised there had, indeed, been a murder. I feel like the private detective who discovers her hero did it, and I didn't want to tell you. I tried to hush it up, hoping it would go away, but it's time I came clean...

Agatha Christie murdered the short story form. Brutally. With no conscience. That's right: They were shit. Epic fail. Like, possibly some of the worst short stories I've read outside the confines of a grade 9 remedial English class. I didn't finish it. I'm sorry, Agatha.

I felt a bit like I'd just opened a present from Santa and found it broken in the box. The reason I come to Agatha at this time of year is her dependability. Until now, I thought she was infallible. Safe. I believed in her. And now I find she's just human, like Santa. It's not the bike I asked for, if you know what I mean. It's an ill-fitting scratchy woollen jumper. I need to find something to wash that disappointed taste out of my mouth and hope I can repair the relationship before next Christie-mas.