Christmas is over. It’s official. Now we can all breathe a sigh of relief.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas, but the Christmas I love happens in the weeks leading up to the big day - the dark evenings and twinkly lights, cosy meet ups with old friends over mulled wine and mince pies.

I love buying presents too, but the shopping, and imagining my children’s angelic faces as they open them is always more fun than the actuality. Never in my fantasies does my ten-year-old have a strop because her sister has been given something she wanted, or complain that she only got nine out of the ten things on her Christmas list.

Once the rose-tinted build up is over, the day itself is always an anti-climax, and the no-mans-land between Christmas and New Year is positively ghastly. I’m practically stuffing gold coins into the kids’ mouths in a bid to clear the house of anything remotely festive, and as much as I love getting the decorations out of the garage mid-December, nothing beats the feeling of packing them all away and hoovering up the last of the damn pine needles.

I love Christmas, but once it’s done, I want everything out. I wait impatiently for the Christmas recycling collection so I can dump all the Christmas cards and cardboard packaging and long to pack everyone back off to school, to reclaim the house and perhaps just a little of my sanity.

If only I could find it under all the wrapping paper...