"It’s a glorified Sunday dinner - how hard can it be?" That’s what I thought a couple of months ago when I foolishly agreed to cook Christmas dinner for several members of my family.

With just days to go before the big day, panic was starting to set in. It became something I tried not to think about, like a dental appointment.

I’ve always helped out with Christmas lunch but this was the first time I’d taken on the whole thing myself - and I was scared.

"We are going to have meat aren’t we?" asked my brother, tentatively, when I announced that I’d be cooking this year. "Of course, leave it all to me," came my smug reply. Although I’m vegetarian, I don’t mind cooking meat (as long as it doesn’t involve messing about with giblets) but my main worry was getting all the weighing and timing right. I wasn't too sure about those pig-in-a-blanket things either, but I told myself I’d cross that bridge when it came.

I told myself I could cope and, as long as I was organised, I’d be okay. Preparation is everything, as my old domestic science teacher used to say.

I felt remarkably calm - until I caught part of Nigella Lawson’s festive cookery programme last week. I came across it by chance and, even though every inch of me wanted to switch channels onto something less distressing, I couldn’t move. It was like slowing down to watch someone being lifted into an ambulance or staring at people arguing in the street. I couldn’t stop myself.

Nigella was throwing a festive supper party, (a supper party in my home would involve people sitting around in their pyjamas eating corn flakes watching Newsnight, but it’s a more bohemian affair round at Nigella’s), and a gathering of beautiful people were tucking into various treats she’d rustled up. Each dish was greeted with rapturous applause as Nigella oozed false modesty, serving up dollops of God-knows-what smothered in red cabbage chutney.

"I call this my girdle-buster," she grinned, heaving a gigantic gooey-looking pie from her massive fridge.

More applause and gasps of delight from her beautiful friends as she placed the girdle-buster onto the table. I broke out in a cold sweat of fear. It hit me, like a slap in the face, that I was never going to be Nigella. "Why aren’t I holding festive supper parties?" I thought, catching sight of the half-eaten spicy bean burger left over from my tea on a plate in front of me. Would Nigella serve spicy bean burgers and oven chips to her dinner guests? She’d rather die.

Everything looked ludicrously perfect in Nigella’s world, from the fairy lights twinkling across her bookcase to the gleaming Aga taking pride of place in her gleaming kitchen. I know it’s just a TV show that was probably filmed in July - I noticed a glimmer of sunlight and what looked suspiciously like green leaves through a chink in Nigella’s curtains - but it creates an impossibly glamorous image that ordinary mortals like me could never live up to.

Apart from the fact that I work during the hours of daylight, I wouldn’t have the energy or the inclination to make girdle-buster pies for hordes of friends, especially during the run-up to Christmas. Isn’t that time of year stressful enough without Nigella being the perfect festive hostess?

The idea of getting roasted parsnips, bread sauce and pigs-in-blankets to the Christmas dinner table all at the same time was already keeping me awake at night. Now I felt pangs of inadequacy because I hadn’t thrown any pre-Christmas supper parties.

Maybe I’ll make it a New Year resolution to invite people round for supper. Corn flakes or muesli anyone?