Are you alone this Christmas? You lucky Brussels sprout. Imagine it.

No excitable overtired children crying till midnight Christmas Eve, and then jumping all over you at 3am Christmas Day.

No tussle with the turkey. No-one should have to put their hand inside any poultry before they’ve had a stiff drink.

Remove the giblets? It’s basically a task from I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out of Here!

The pressure to make dinner and yourself look like Nigella Lawson builds with every smoke alarm.

Sweaty, puce, a rash forming from your novelty jumper, you’re so far from domestic goddess you’re in a different time zone.

One that’s behind. Because, despite rising earlier than you would do to go to work, lunch is still not ready.

All small children will turn into Roman emperors on speed, because someone left the lid off the Quality Street tin. Your mother will scowl and poke at the dry turkey.

Someone will drop the braised red cabbage you only made because it came in the organic veg box.

You will have a little cry in the pantry/loo/wine fridge/alley down the side of the flat/car.

If you’re lucky your neighbours might pop in for an awkward and uncomfortable Christmas drink.

Or your relatives will visit and you’ll slip eye drops into the sherry of your aunt who keeps going on about “those terrorist Moss-lims”.

If you’re really lucky you’ll get to squash yourself, luggage, presents and more people into a car so you can repeat the day like a scratched record with more “loved ones”.

Imagine. You could be alone. In silk pyjamas. Netflix on. Glass of fizz. Hot bath. Beautiful silence. How utterly awful. Merry Christmas.

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