I do know it's Christmas time and frankly I can't wait for people to stop talking about it

My boat is about to runneth over. Tallulah and her girlfriend are arriving on Sunday until the twenty-seventh and my son and his girlfriend already take up the the spare room, which is not really spare because it’s his. This means that elaborate, make shift beds are go, in the manner of Rhodri Marsden’s much missed festive round up on the app previously known as Twitter. In some ways it is a blessing that Tilly will be MIA this year, because with only two futon mats, she would have had to sleep on three cushions and a life buoy.

Derek, who usually sleeps on the sofa, takes to crouching angrily on the bathroom rug in protest when visitors have the audacity to stay over. Staggering blindly into the bathroom for a night time wee has never been more fraught with peril. There are times I am grateful that she only has one fang left.

Jason, who loves his children but prefers to do it with ear defenders on, and who will undoubtedly have to work over some of the Christmas period will retreat to our bedroom, which is where I usually work, and this means I am about to be made homeless.

One of the things I have learned about myself in recent months, is just how much I value silence and alone time. I couldn’t allow myself to think about this much when three kids, three cats and an assortment of teenagers who had fallen out with their parents lived with me. Now though, I do realise when I need to decompress before start weeping into the gravy on Christmas Day. I have dug out my good, wool coat and my Lenny Kravitz scarf so that I can pace the Thames Path for as long as it takes to restore equilibrium without fear of frostbite.

Today’s stomp was around Millwall Dock and Basin where I sat on a bench for a bit as the light waned and watched about thirty swans take off from the water. It was so loud and so beautifully ungainly and I was so wrapped up in it that when I got up to leave I totally forgot I had a bag full of groceries with me when I sat down. When I dashed back at a crap jog, I found it sitting all alone on a bench in the dark, enjoying the peace. To be honest, if someone had taken it, I couldn’t begrudge them a loaf of bread and the fixings for a spaghetti bolognese. Although I would have been sad to lose the festive shortbread I bought as a concession to the season.

I have only eaten two panettone’s this year so far. It’s a bit sad to be honest, because I bloody love them and I’m usually down about six at this stage of proceedings. I just can’t quite muster the energy. I think this is the most low energy Christmas I’ve ever had, except that year when I was in bed being wildly ill and Jason cooked everyone fish fingers and potato waffles.

I can’t really stock up on delicious food anyway because storage is limited and full of things that are necessary all year round rather than for a few, frantic days. The average panettone is about the size of a small family car, which doesn’t help. I’m getting a bit twitchy about the lack of pate and smoked salmon but the fridge is not conducive at the best of times. It is both small and has become prone to freezing anything you put in it to mush. That only happens when it’s not making everything weirdly tepid and slightly dangerous to eat. Last minute food shopping is our only option and let the chips fall where they may. Luckily, as we do not eat traditional festive food, there is a reasonable chance that I will be able to buy everything I need and we won’t be forced to eat a family pack of Monster Munch and some out of date Matchmakers from the garage out of desperation.

This week has seen a flurry of gift shopping. The time for slowly browsing charity shops for treasure is over, replaced instead by the killer instinct of a woman on a mission to buy something even remotely feasible for her father, who is a quiet nightmare to buy for. He’d get an IOU but it’s a dangerous game to play with a man whose birthday is at the beginning of February when it will be equally difficult to buy him anything.

I am grateful to say that Jason has banned me from buying him anything and as he’s also incredibly hard to buy for and it’s his Fiftieth in January I have complied. I only have the energy to think of one wonderful thing. I’m also beginning to wish I’d saved the video message from Miriam Margolyes for the big five-oh, because with him, even one wonderful thing is hard.

I’m also wishing there was a way to explain to Cameo that just because you love Miriam for the filthy national treasure she is, it doesn’t mean that you want to invest in messages from the rest of the cast of Harry Potter. Maybe you loved Miriam long before the Potter franchise got going. Maybe you’ll always think of her as Lady Whiteadder with her amusingly shaped turnips.

Maybe an amusingly shaped turnip is in Jason’s future. Who can tell?

That’s me, over and out until the festivities are over. Mr. Snoots may pop by while I’m away. Who knows? He’s a misteree and a mennuss and canot be kontaynd, lyk the wind.

I will be back in the New Year when I will be pondering my best reads of the year.

I wish you all peace, joy and whatever your heart needs.