Happy Christmas Eve. Happy train-ride-of-pain. Happy sleeping-on-a-sofabed-with-no-idea-how-to-turn-the-epileptic-fairylights-off. Happy being-spoken-to-like-a-six-year-old-again. Happy getting-slightly-pissed-in-a-pub-with-people-you-grew-up-with-but-have-no-idea-what-their-wives-are-called. Happy quickly-buying-bathbombs-at-dusk. Happy nostalgia. Happy all of this. There should be more opportunities to celebrate an eve, I reckon. The calm before.

Moving House Eve. There you sit with your fish and chips in paper, a mug of squash, your boxes. Your boxes. There are six whole years inside these boxes, sorted by room. Sharp memories wrapped carefully in paper, and books heavier than the stories in them. Why are you crying over a lost HDMI cable? Why does a binbag of bedding make you feel so small? You always forget how moving, moving is.

Sending a Difficult Text Eve. Night will come, then morning, then you have to do it. There is no getting out of it this time, there are no more tomorrows, because if you leave it another day then another part of you will wilt and fall off. If you leave it another day then you’ll try to leave it yet another day, and then all those days will glom together making them heavy and immovable. This is peace, the last night before it just gets silly, the last night that nobody knows.

Direct Debit Default Eve. Tomorrow your rent will leave your account, except your account is empty. You’re strangely fine, actually. You keep thinking of your account as a jar of Nutella that you have been scraping thoughtlessly with a spoon for three years. You think back to the reckless brunch you bought at the beginning of the month, the thing you read saying you’d never own a flat because you like avocados, and you sort of think, well, they told us to eat vegetables, they can’t have it both ways.

Understanding Eve. You have less than 12 hours before you have to really get a grip on what Bitcoin is. Ditto the Brexit Irish border complications. And that meme with the boyfriend looking over his shoulder. And sport. But tonight, you rest.

Last Meat Eve. It was the trip to the farm that did it, and since that afternoon you’ve chewed your lunch with a sort of weary knowledge that you, and your mum, and your gran, you’re death machines. People make such a fuss over bacon. Like it’s the cheeky sister of heroin, rather than the edge of a pig. And the “Sunday Roast”, talked of with reverence, but only by English people who aren’t accustomed to a family meal round yours, where food is pressed upon people as if they’ve just been found after a night lost in the snow. And “the burger”: let’s cut the crap, it’s a sandwich. It’s just a sandwich. You toast the end of meat with the final sausage, you’re ready.

30th Day Eve. You put a reminder in your phone a month ago: this is your last day of free Netflix and by God you’re going to get your money’s worth. You’ve worked it out: if you account for three wee breaks you can finish Mindhunter and Stranger Things, eat a microwave lasagne, then make a start on Okja. This way of living, this TV apocalypse, brings out the very best in you. And who knows, maybe this is the kick into real life you need? You go online to buy running shorts, and then, at checkout, accept the sweetest offer of Amazon Prime.

Holiday Eve. Ticket, got, passport, here, microfibre towel, Wet Wipes. Of course, you could just… not go. What you could do, rather than travelling around Asia alone, is Airbnb a studio flat in Watford for a month and invest in a course of stand-up tanning. Nobody needs to know. Because come on, how much of a challenge do you really need at this stage in your life? Walking in heels is enough of a faff. Oddly it’s this, the realisation you have the choice to stay, that makes you excited again about leaving.

Your Ex’s Wedding Eve. You’ve been checking the weather hourly for almost a fortnight, cheering inwardly at cloud cover. What? You’re not a mean person. You want only happiness for him, honestly. Honestly! But does his happiness have to be so… public? It’s almost as if he’s doing it specifically to humiliate you. Otherwise, why all the social updates? How many times do you need to be reminded how tricky parking will be at the venue? It’s parking. It’s tricky. We know.

Email Eva at e.wiseman@observer.co.uk or follow her on Twitter @EvaWiseman