Christmas. The season of suicide and divorce is upon us.

Is there nothing more heartening than those quiet moments sobbing hysterically beneath the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree?

Another family fight, another £10 Amazon giftcard you'll lose about five minutes after you get it.

Then there's the dreaded work Christmas party, the serious liver damage, the walk-of-shame that's so much more humiliating in a gold-sequined cocktail dress. Oh Joy!

The only option is to get as sloshed as possible, wear mistletoe, and head to the City to help our men in pinstriped suits celebrate what's rumoured to be the biggest bonus season ever. (Coq D'Argent Thursday, gentlemen. I'll be the tipsy redhead in the fetching gold dress.)

Looking for something to do after the Krug runs out? Head back up to Covent Garden for Coco de Mer's Hanky Spanky Grotto.

While he's perving after the Coco Lederhosen Ladies - so much more festive than Stringfellows - you can climb up into the big guy's lap and whisper everything you want to find under that tree. (I repeat: Cartier watch, vintage Dunhill lighter, Mont Blanc fountain pen, bijou flat in Barcelona.)

Because, trust me, I've been an awfully good girl...