Best of wishes to you all, dear readers! Did Santa bring you everything you asked for? I was very, very lucky!

I ended up with enough ASOS vouchers to order a new ‘going out’ outfit every week. Not that I’ll be going to any soirees mind you.

Christmas Day saw me shoving inordinate amounts of wrapping paper into carrier bags and praying that the bin men will kindly take the extra 12 bags that I’ve piled up next to the wheelie bin.

They should do, I ran out in my dressing gown, knock-off Ugg boots and with no make-up on to give them a four-pack of Aldi’s finest, Galahad lager.

Four cans seemed reasonable, I’m sure they can split them and enjoy a third of a can each.

After tidying up I was forced to sit and put together Barbie houses, Lego and other tripe that should really come ready made for the price it is.

I was shaking as I downed Bucks Fizz and worked up a sweat.

Several times I hurled a miniature bed post or a doll at the wall, much to the horror of my children.

Even when I’d finished I was left with a bag-full of plastic clips, blocks and screws.

Eventually I palmed the kids off to relatives and sat down to enjoy my fourth bottle of Bucks Fizz and enjoy the old classic, Oliver! I’ve always loved that movie.

I think it’s the fact that I too understand the frustration of wanting more food.

I was relatively relaxed for a while until I started to become lonely.

The kids didn’t want to come home after the Barbie massacre and all of my friends were busy spending time with their families, the selfish goons!

It wasn’t as if I had Ryan Gosling to snuggle up with on the sofa so, in an act of utter desperation and attempt to alleviate my boredom, I went for a walk.

I mused as to why I had no parties to go to over the coming week.

As good as it is being a single woman throughout the rest of the year, it sure does suck at Christmas.

I slumped on a public bench and started scoffing on one of the kid’s selection boxes I’d stolen and slurping from a flask filled with Bucks Fizz.

I was about ready to cry when I heard a little yelping sound emitting from the bin next to me.

I approached and, using a stick so I didn’t have to touch the refuse with my skin, I prodded around (aka ‘bin ratched’) whispering “hello?” as I went.

A couple drove past and I saw them slow down so they could get a good look at the crazy lady prodding into the bin while trying to initiate a conversation with it.

They soon sped off when they received a rather loud ‘what like?!’ in my broadest, Workington accent.

Just then a dirty, very small puppy nervously edged out from behind the bin. My heart melted and I picked him up.

“Jesus sent you to me on his birthday! Now we have each other!” I cried and in my head The Pogues played and the angels danced around with tinsel.

It was a fairytale Christmas story, well, until the owner ran out explaining that ‘Hank’ had run out of the cat flap having rolled around in the other pet’s litter tray.

My Christmas fairytale was shattered. Here’s hoping next year I find Ryan in a bin on Christmas Day.