IT'S all over. The decorations are packed away and back in the loft, the cards have been sent for recycling and there are only the fudges left in the Heroes tin (nobody likes them in our house either.)

It's all a bit flat really. Once Christmas Day was done and dusted it was all downhill.

New Year's Eve was unbelievably quiet. Since the arrival of our son, Hogmanay has been a rather more sedate affair.

Time was when we refused to believe we'd had a proper New Year's Eve unless we crawled in bed no earlier than 6am . . . the following week.

This year I struggled valiantly to keep my eyes open as I slumped on the settee watching Jools Holland's Hootenanny.

"Only another hour 'till midnight," said my husband, who was in the other room playing Football Manager on his computer, "THEN we can open the champers."

Oooh, I thought peevishly, Champagne -- a whole glass. Years ago I'd have been on my second BOTTLE by now.

I always remember feeling remotely sorry for friends who had kids. "Impossible to get a babysitter at New Year," they would lament. Leaving me to commiserate for a split second before heading off to the party.

Still, I thought as I watched the telly and anticipated my Champagne, looking at Jools and all his guests.

They're not out having a good time on New Year's Eve, they're all working."

I suddenly felt a bit of camaraderie with the likes of his Rhythm and Blues Band, Chrissie Hynde and, God forbid, Mr Cool himself -- Jarvis Cocker. If they're having to stay in on New Year's, well, it can't be that bad.

"God, this was recorded weeks ago," said my husband as he walked into the living room. A bloke at work went. Cracking show he said."

Talk about bursting your bubble.

It all seemed a bit fake now. These very people, these New Year's Eve charlatans, were pretending to enjoy their Hootenanny when it was probably recorded on Bonfire Night.

Right now they were probably at some fantastic showbiz bash, quaffing expensive booze and laughing at all those folk sitting in front of the box. Me in fact. They were laughing at me.

Then, through my self-pitying mist, reality kicked in. How many New Year's Eves had I spent thinking there was another, better party somewhere else? Loads.

And, worse still, how many New Year's Days had I spent comatose in my bed, unable to lift my head off the pillow in case the room spun like a top once again?

Ugh, the memories came flooding back just as Big Ben chimed midnight and my husband uncorked the Champagne.

We drank to each other before tiptoeing into our son's bedroom and raising our glasses to the tousled-haired boy sleeping in his cot.

Then we finished our Champagne and went to bed. I glance at the bedside clock. 1am. Phew, what a night!