Christmas comes but five times a year, there’s never any warning and woe betide any liquor you might have stashed. First indication is your neighbours phoning you at work and telling you your house alarm has been wailing and wailing, your side window’s broken and the smashed girl inside won’t let them turn the siren off.

They point out that it’s not fair, they’ve got a one-year-old child to raise; meanwhile I have a 23-year-old child and my expectations can’t get much lower, realistically, but realism is in short supply around Christmas.

All I want from Christmas is oh, a job, the odd phonecall to let me know she’s alive, would attending one freaking AA meeting be so bad? At least she’s not boosting my furniture, yet. But her birthday is coming up and I can’t take another visit from her and Father Christmas.

The night is getting longer and there’s a cold that the midday sun won’t quite chase away. I’ve got my rent deposit back and bought my tickets. This Christmas…

…I won’t be home for Christmas.