Oh the luxury of knowing that silly season is behind us for another year.

Gleefully we dump the mince pies, donate the weird gifts and vacuum up every last vestige of tinsel. It feels a touch Scrooge-like to be so relieved to see the back of such a ‘special’ time. 

Except it’s not. It’s only bloody reasonable.

Most of the joy was sucked from Christmas when we became adults…. FEMALE adults.

Because here we are, somehow almost entirely responsible for delivering the full Christmas experience – with giving our children all the sparkle and delight, with juggling family and in-law relationships, usually with cooking and (99 times out of 100) shopping resting entirely on our plates. 

And then we wonder why we’re miseries; why it takes a gallon of alcohol to make us *joyful* and to lubricate our way through the season.

We’re miseries because there is nothing merry and bright about being the Christmas workhorse…

It...