Well, here we are, stumbling into that no-man’s land between Christmas and the New Year, when the fag-end of 2013 heaves a heart-felt sigh and prepares to roll over and die like a venerable walrus who just can’t take any more lying around on a rock somewhere while puffins keep it awake and oh, god, not fish for breakfast, dinner and tea again.

December 27th. Christmas is over. The remains of the turkey sulk in the fridge, cultivating pathogens with which the glistening carcass might make us sick as parrots and possibly kill us off, one last hurrah of a revenge best served cold from a bird whose only purpose in life was to get its neck rung and miss out on all the festive fun.

The remains of the cake lurk in the bread-bin, crisping at the edges, surrounded by the blobs of marzipan which people have surreptitiously peeled off and abandoned, because who likes marzipan anyway?

The Christmas tree, having served its purpose and managed to struggle through the big day with nary a thimble-ful of water since it was thrust up in all that gayness and jollity, finally fulfills its true destiny: as the Lover’s Leap for pine needles which, lemming-like, have decided to end it all en masse and leap to their doom on the carpet below.

And those gifts... those gifts for which you fought hook and claw, those gifts which were suddenly, inevitably, depressingly in short supply in the run-up to Christmas, those gifts for which you elbowed a granny out of the way, those gifts you held aloft like some kind of gladatorial prize... they lie abandoned. And the shops have suddenly found all the stock they were missing before Christmas, and are selling it off at a third of the price.

The television has given up the ghost as well, sinking into a stupor like the rest of us, content with dragging out Christmas specials featuring long-dead light entertainers or comedians, which do nothing but remind us how many Christmases we’ve got under our belts, a gurning, tinsel-wreathed, paper hat-wearing reminder of the mortality which is rushing towards us, counted off on the speeded-up opening of advent calendar doors until the final piece of cardboard folds back to reveal an endless black emptiness.

That bottle of spirits which nobody likes sits on the kitchen work surface, daring you to drink it. The annual big box of cheese crackers allows its contents to soften and wither. The extra sprouts you bought lie in the bottom of the vegetable drawer, slowly browning off. The people who can recoup your payment protection insurance are back at work and begin to ring with renewed vigour.

You check your bank balance and realise that because you got paid early you’re probably going to starve in January.

Still, cheer up, eh? It’s only 364 days to Christmas.