My realisation that you can’t fight the spirit of Christmas started with a free chocolate coin from the Ebenezer Scrooge of franchised coffee shops, ie Starbucks, cemented when a cashier letting me off 10p in Argos and celebrated with a ‘Best of British’ cheese platter from M&S. If freebies and cheese don’t define Christmas, I just don’t know what does.

Being practically single, and without child (though the amount of choccies and dinner invites I’ve been polite enough to indulge in makes it hard to gauge), a mother who has retired to warmer climates, and more married/ engaged friends that I can shake a stick at, I decided to channel my inner Grinch and boycott the happy holidays.

I assumed my disenchantment with yuletide was a natural progression of adulthood, having watched the quality and amount of presents I receive steadily diminish with age, alongside the rejection of Christmas Eve round the tree with the family drinking mulled wine and singing along to José Feliciano, in favour of Christmas Eve round the table/on a table of a night club drinking whatever’s going. When you’re old enough to stumble home after St.Nick’s been and gone - the Christmas magic is well and truly made redundant.

I resigned myself to the fact that its just an extra day off, a chance to really rest before I emerged from my cocoon to tackle the sales on Boxing Day. But then people started putting up pretty lights, and smiling more, and old friends started to call and so my tiny heart, against its will, started to fill up with love and happiness. And amidst the bills, and other crap, there was, for once, a handwritten card, carefully addressed and thoughtfully posted all proper like. It certainly beats an email invitation to Elf Yourself (which I’d still recommend.)

And so I found myself creeping around the shops an hour before closing on Sunday to buy some fairy lights and even a Christmas card (which goes against all my principles re: the daylight robbery of unwitting fans ) but I just couldn’t resist the words: “Ok Mum, what part of turbo-charged all-weather quad bike didn’t you understand?” above a picture of a glum-looking boy from the forties on a tricycle. I truly empathised, getting flashbacks of the Barbie Dreamhouse, circa Christmas 1989, that never was.

Now I’m full of festive cheer and have vowed to enjoy the rest of the season with relentless passion. Because the worst thing about Christmas is as soon as you start to enjoy it, it’s over.

Gawd bless us everyone!