Decorations? As if. Turkey? Forget it. ’Tis the season to be miserable, says one holiday hater.

I dread Christmas. It’s full of empty promises: Santa doesn’t exist, snow never comes, Messrs Morecambe and Wise are dead, pine trees make a mess, it’s too foggy to see any stars, carol singers are just after cash, mulled wine gives you a headache, my family is bonkers.

I think my dislike of Christmas may have begun when my mother married for the fourth time (she’s now with number five). While she may have left the other husbands behind, I was still expected to keep in touch with them all, even though only one of them was technically my dad. As I got older, this task became more onerous. The three main days of Christmas would be spent in a car driving around the country dropping off presents, like an Amazon delivery van, with various former families. At each slightly awkward gathering, I would have to pretend I could remember my step-cousins’ names, look thrilled when opening a gift of notepaper and envelopes (which was then to be used to thank them for the notepaper and envelopes), and check my Casio watch to make sure we wouldn’t be late for the next family.

Eventually, it all became too much, and like some people cull their Christmas card lists, I had to cull my Christmastime families. I introduced a strict policy of one-in, one-out when it came to mum’s husbands.