DRIVING home for Christmas by Chris Rea gets me every year on the last journey from work before the festivities begin.

The lyrics don’t actually say very much...

‘I’m driving home for Christmas Oh, I can’t wait to see those faces I’m driving home for Christmas, yea’ But for me it conjures up snow-capped mountains, log cabins with open fires, cinnamon-laced mulled wine, the love of a good man in a Rudolph jumper and rosy-cheeked children eagerly awaiting Santa.

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I get lost in the cosy moment until I pull up in front of our house and reality comes piling in like an avalanche from those snow-capped mountains.

Instead of neatly laid-out kiddie boots with crampons, I’m greeted by a pair of muddy bloke wellies and a full to over-flowing recycling bin.

As I push the front door open, there’s no smell of warm spiced wine, more an overwhelming whiff of wet dog, with accompanying mud splashes along the skirting boards. Then I detect undernotes of last night’s mackerel, evidenced by the chewed plastic packaging leading to a trail of household refuse from the overturned bin in the kitchen.

Last year, we very stupidly left the gift from the dog walker to Lola our loveable Labrador under the Christmas tree, as if she’d know when it was one minute past midnight on December 24 and time to open it. What’s more, we were actually disappointed that she’d ripped open the packaging and shredded the supposed Labrador-resistant toy inside.

And we were, quite frankly, appalled the excitement had set off a present-ripping frenzy of gifts which didn’t even have her name on them. Empty chocolate papers were strewn across the floor and remnants of the fancy tights I’d bought for my sister hung lifelessly from the lower boughs of the Christmas tree.

So let’s move on to the loving partner in the Rudolph jumper, shall we? Well, he won’t actually be in attendance as he’ll be panic-buying in B&M Bargains.

And the rosy-cheeked kids? Well, the only evidence is a pile of dirty washing in the middle of the kitchen floor left by my student daughter on her way out before joining her mates for mulled wine and a mince pie. The son’s working in Spain and probably won’t remember it’s Christmas until January 1.

Driving home for Christmas, I think I may just do a detour via the pub.