WELL, I know there is still a month to go, but I couldn't let you get away that easily.
I'm not going to finish my last column of 2006 with a mention and moan about Christmas.
Let's face it, the poet Wendy Cope knew what she was talking about when she slammed Christmas for singles.
"At Christmas little children sing and merry bells jingle, the cold winter air makes our hands and faces tingle, and happy families go to church and happily they mingle, and the whole business is unbelievably dreadful, if your single."
The sight of couples happily buying presents and "rings" is enough to make the most hardened cynic feel lonely and desperate.
The thought of sleeping in a single bunk bed at your parents over Christmas, while everyone else parades their new partner often sends us into a frenzy of merry escapism at store counters or to the nearest pub.
So this year, I've decided to change my seasonal priorities. I'm going to treat yuletide 2006 as a welcome rest from work, time away from home and the pressures of everyday routine. A time to catch up with family and friends, take a breather and relax.
You see, after two bottles of seasonal cheer it all became clear. I decided that too often Christmas is presented as a whirlwind of commercial exploitation, mass spending and binge drinking that culminates in an empty wallet, a bulging waistline and a horrific hangover.
Perhaps locking yourself away from the world will be a welcome respite instead of just plain sad.
Then, come January, I should be refreshed, relatively well off and ready to face the fast-paced world of work, dating and those pages of New Year resolutions. Right?
Er, maybe. But anyway, I have a contingency plan.
If all else fails, just put on a party hat, grab a glass or ten of Buck's Fizz and grit your teeth tightly.
Cousin Harry's new girlfriend is probably a hired escort anyway.
My great quest for an onion
UNFORTUNATELY, I am the kind of person who embarrasses herself on a daily, if not hourly basis.
I am the idiot who - in a dubious attempt to cure a horrific Monday morning hangover - gets caught stuffing a huge Scotch egg from the Co-op into their gob by the boss out back.
I am also the fool who famously cried because I thought blood was seeping from the pores on my nose (it turned out to be the red dye from my cocktail umbrella, oops).
Sadly, absolutely everybody who has known me for ooh, five minutes, knows I am a walking disaster area and will gleefully take every opportunity to add to my long list of mortifying debacles.
Like last Sunday night, when the household meal needed an onion for fajitas.
Tesco being long closed, it was me who, armed with only a shiny pound and mobile phone, set off on the search for the vital vegetable.
Fifteen houses, two bewildered pensioners, 10 frantic phone calls and one very wet me later there was still no onion joy.
Then, in a blinding road-to-Damascus flash of inspiration I legged it to the main road of shops and restaurants where, thank god, I finally located the edible bulb.
So, I would like to thank everyone who checked their cupboards for me last week - in particular the generous head chef at Café Rouge, Sheffield - for saving me, my Mexican meal and misadventerous reputation.
