My husband is one of those rare breeds of humans who actually likes people

The word caused me to physically shudder, not helped by the fact I was breast-deep in a supermarket deep freeze, trying to rifle through to see if a forgotten Vienetta was floating around. In the run-up to Christmas, finding a Vienetta is like spotting a unicorn in the wild or your local TD in the Dáil — an occurrence so rare you are under a civic duty to tweet about it when it happens.

This planet is made up of extroverts and introverts, and they grow up to marry one another. Small talk exhausts me, and yet my husband is one of those rare breeds of humans who actually likes people and revels in the chance to chat. This is particularly true at Christmas when he eagerly awaits visitors the way our grandparents must have awaited that orange in a sock, if for no other reason than to force an Irish coffee down their throats as he attempts to perfect the cream-to-coffee ratio.

I love battening down the hatches for the festive season and wearing the same leggings for days on end. While some people look at this time of year as the peak of their social schedule, for me, the real joy is not having to go anywhere or do anything and hiding away from the world for a bit.

I can understand my husband’s desire to surround himself with people who don’t live with him, but this year I fully intend to double down on family time and make it special for the small people in particular.

It’s the first year Ted fully got it, and I threw everything at this Christmas to make it the best yet. I got stockings, mince pies and credit card debt. Mostly though, I have coined a new yuletide identity for myself, giving Mariah Carey a run for her money as the queen of Christmas.

Part of my pre-Christmas mania involved rearranging the spices in the press in alphabetical order, and marvelling at the optimist in me when I purchased nutmeg with a view to “finally doing some baking”. It is officially Stephen’s Day, and the nutmeg remains sealed, untouched. Every time I reach for my old friend oregano I hear Mr Nutmeg (not to make things gendered, but I feel nutmeg is male) goading me: “What happened to the homemade ginger biscuits you were going to make, you lazy sloth?”

Now Mr Nutmeg and his judgement are hidden at the back of the press where they belong, so as not to cast negativity on what is still this most joyous time of year.

We’re in the post-Christmas stage when what’s done is done; what presents have materialised, have materialised, and the shops are officially reopened after being closed for a woefully measly 24 hours. It’s such a hectic time that, as parents, we often forget to sit down while we scoff our fifth mince pie of the day, let alone ruminate on what presents our other halves procured for us.

It was the Thursday before Christmas when my husband finally tackled the subject of gifts head-on because he’s forward-thinking like that.

“What would you like for Christmas?” he asked as we finished the Christmas cards.

Of course, I told him not to be wasting his money on little old me.

“Surely you want something?” he persisted,

I fervently shook my head.

“Just make a charitable donation on my behalf,” I said. “I don’t need a present.”

For future reference for any husbands reading this, please know that anytime we say to make a charitable donation on our behalf, we really want a Kindle. Preferably with a case, but we’re not fussy.

Thankfully my husband is always a man to pick up on the subtle hints and proceeded to click the link I texted, tweeted, and emailed him, managing to collect my self-chosen gift at the 11th hour.

Waking up yesterday morning and spotting the box in my stocking was the best non-surprise I’ve had in a long time. Whoever said money can’t buy happiness has obviously never bought a Kindle. Or Botox for that matter, which will definitely be top of my Christmas list next year because nothing says ‘tis the season like a forehead that doesn’t move.