I hate the New Year. I hate the conceit that just by waking up on January 1, everything will somehow be different. Better.

And I hate New Year resolutions because they’re always the same (diets or cigarettes).

But most of all I hate the days following New Year’s Day.

I hate that first day back at work, when everything you managed to put off until after the holidays finally catches up with you.

Indeed, come January 2, everything – friends, family, work, sex – just seems... tiresome.

Now the problem I have is that with each and every previous Christmas, I develop an extraordinarily high level of faith in my fellow man (I would almost say it’s viral such is its ferocity). And understandably, not only is it annoying to me, but irritating to everyone else too.

Consequently I become the ‘hail fellow well met’ type that everyone wishes to avoid because, well, they’re creepy. But if only that were the least of it.

I also find it exhausting. Which is why I think when New Year comes, I suddenly find myself all alone at sea in a storm of depression and self-pity.

Or rather, that’s what’s always happened before. This year, things will be different...

I’ll admit it hasn’t been easy but over the last four weeks I have made every effort to quash my enthusiasm for the season in the hope that when I wake on New Year’s Day, I’ll have no ‘bubble’ to burst. And this, for those of you who also suffer post-Christmas blues, is just how I did it.

First I failed to send out Christmas cards to friends and family and surprisingly, I rather enjoyed this change of direction. Being unapologetically impossible, I failed to be disappointed this year that their cards were clearly cheaper than mine.

Secondly, as regards actual gifts, I cut back mightily. In fact, as a joke I actually designed and printed certificates of authenticity that stated that my gift of friendship was indeed real and priceless.

And thirdly, I stayed off the mince pies and eggnog (as it happens, I’m a relative newcomer to this festive favourite but thankfully realised early on – back in 2007 in fact – just how severe its alcoholic grip could be).

Consequently, writing this very day, Sunday, December 29, I am better equipped to take on the New Year than ever before.

My expectations are at rock bottom, I’ve no spare tyre to wear away at the gym, my bank balance is only dire (normally it’s suicidal), and I have no aspirations for 2014 (other than look good on the beach and be a ‘riot’ at parties).

Yes, next year holds no fears for me. Except maybe... that I’ll be in this exact same place next year.