Maybe about 20 years ago, I remember in the run-up to Christmas a knocking at the door. And, lo, there were carol singers.

There were several such visits down my little street in Whitstable. They would shuffle expectantly on the doorstep singing – sometimes superbly, other times abjectly – a few verses of Hark the Herald Angels Sing or maybe a snatch of O Little Town of Bethlehem.

On one occasion, a couple of surly teens banged out Away in a Manger. Poorly.

It never quite resembled the Christmas card scene of lanterns being held aloft and those belting out the tunes being dressed to the nines in capes. But then, I suppose, I wasn’t living in the Dickensian era. I’m not that old, despite the claims of my children.

I would stand there not knowing quite where to look. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a lovely thing to have on your doorstep (maybe not those teenagers, mind, but I had to admire their money-making ambitions). But rather than enjoy the musical interlude and relish the classic Christmas scene, my mind would be racing.

‘Just how much do I have to give these people,’ my brain would be calculating. No one tells you the going rate for such a thing. And, more often the case, ‘how long do I let them sing before I offer them whatever coins I have in my pocket and we can all go back to our evenings’.

Probably as a direct consequence of me looking so awkward and them singing a carol for the grand total of 20p to be split between six of them, I haven’t seen a single singer appear on my doorstep since.

In fact, I know no one who has had carol singers knocking on their door for years. Do people still do it?

When I was young, I felt like it was a regular occurrence. My parents loved it. My father, either deliberately or – more likely because he enjoyed it – let them get through an entire song before offering them a few quid.

If they turned up today, I’d be in something of a bind. Like the King, I rarely carry cash these days. What do I offer them? A mince pie? I’m not sure they’d be happy if they sang their hearts out and I gave them nothing but a round of applause. Or those horrid hard sweets no-one likes in a box of Quality Street.

So, Scrooge-like as it is, perhaps it’s for the best carol singers don’t go door-to-door any more.

Have a very happy Christmas.