I’m so conflicted about December.

It’s a great month, with Christmas at the end of it, twinkling lights, cosy nights in, family, friends and all the trimmings.

On the other hand, though it’s also a terrible month, with Christmas at the end of it, twinkling lights, cosy noghts in, family, friends and all the trimmings.

December, more than any month, is a month of pressure. Pressure to fit in as many social functions as possible, to see as many friends as possible, to see your family, to buy gifts people will like and to be drawn into the “well I got…” family Christmas Top Trumps where even if you got the blackest cat known to man, someone else’s would be blacker.

December messes me up. It’s the biggest kick in mental health gland of the year. It’s just so… I don’t know… perfect. Everywhere you look – adverts, magazines, films, TV shows and of course social media – Christmas is perfect.

It’s anything but.

But that’s the way to portray it, isn’t it. And even the way you’ll talk about it to friends and family. But it’s really not. I mean it’s not the clusterfuck of calamity that the soaps would have you believe but it’s far from perfect.

A few years ago I up-ended our entire tray of Christmas left-overs – arguably the best part about Christmas – and ruined most of it. That shit sucks, and I remember how down it got me. How sad I was about spilt turkey, for fuck’s sake.

That’s the sort of shit December can pull on you, though.

This year, if you look online, the biggest Christmas woe is we have to wait until New Year’s Day for Doctor Who.

Whereas I’m already losing the plot because the house if untidy with bags of Christmas decorations everywhere. And I know it’s stupid and irrational. And I know I shouldn’t need to lash out or yell or whatever. And I still do.

And I hate it.

But then I love it all as well. All the decorations up, how nice the house looks fairy-lighted etc.

Like I say, December leads to conflict.

Mainly within myself.