I clambered into bed after a lovely Friday night dinner at B’s house followed by a lovely Saturday night X Factor/movie viewing with my housemates combo and promptly began transferring my expensive mascara onto my expensive bedlinen by means of leaking at the eyes.

I really wish it was January.

I get all bah humbug with people who start celebrating Christmas early, I’m like a grumpy old Grinch with a cold black heart who wishes Father Christmas would fuck off back to the North Pole and take his reindeer, his elves and all his ho ho ho’ing with him.

It’s because I wish I could reduce Christmas down to nothing, a twinkle in the eye of the jolly fat bloke with the red beard and nothing more. I can’t deal with all the festiveness and the loved ones and the outpouring of pure unbridled joy at receiving another pair of socks from Aunt Cecily. Each mention, each moment, all the holly jolly Christmas chatter and planning and presents and perfect parties is like another stab in my heart, a reminder of my spare part status this year, just like the ones before. Not quite fitting in amongst my big family of smaller families, the spinster Aunt who someone has to take under their wing. It’s also an unnecessary reminder that my Mum aka Queen Christmas, is never coming back and I’m not going to be having the most wonderful time of the year.

In my head of course I’m imagining a lovely LTA family Christmas, one where I don’t feel like I’m imposing on whoever has the job to take me in off the streets come the 24th December. It’s like a TV ad, all snowy and blustery outside but inside the fire is on, everyone’s wearing Christmas jumpers and hooting with laughter whilst helping make dinner. There are carefully wrapped presents under the tree and the children are dashing about the house hopped up on sugar and the faint sound of sleigh bells. In my head there are the parents who can’t wait to welcome their children home for the holidays, but even with all the best will in the world won’t avoid a tiff over how to carve the turkey or whether they should play Trivial Pursuit or watch Bond.

I won’t lie, it really hurts. It hurts when I see the confusion in people’s eyes that we don’t do Christmas in my family, that the parental units take themselves off on holiday and I am foisted upon either a brother or a friend who can’t bear the thought that actually, the perfect Christmas for me now, would mean being entirely alone ignoring the whole thing before emerging on the 27th December unscathed for another year.

My ability to fake the Christmas cheer that is needed to not piss on the chips of my wonderful friends and family members who DO love Christmas (kids especially) is seriously waning. Forget Santy Claus, you can call me Anti Claus.