Spare a thought for ‘the single one’ this Christmas

Nothing is more humbling than being “the single one” at Christmas... except, perhaps, for the list of people the dating apps tell you you’re “most compatible with” (really?). Plus, the ignominy of swiping right from your childhood bedroom – ouch.

It doesn’t matter how fulfilled and content you are – at this time of year, you’re always made to feel like the odd one out – a project for loved ones to take on, much like the 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle strewn across the coffee table.

The pain of being single at Christmas is real – trust me.

And it’s not just apparent from the lack of mistletoe on nights out – or dearth of presents beneath the tree – but at work, too. Single people are all too often treated as a scapegoat by bosses calling for “volunteers” to work over the festive period. After all: single, childless people don’t need time off, do we?

Should you be lucky enough to be granted annual leave, though, things can still get a little tricky this time of year. Beyond the customary questions about your love life – like when you’re going to hurry up and find a husband and have kids and get on the property ladder and get a “real job”, you are exposed to all sorts of asks during the festive period that your coupled-up counterparts would never be.

First comes the cross-country schlep – because it is an unwritten rule that single people aren’t allowed to host Christmas; for it is a time for traditional values and not our wanton ways!

And so, you finish work on Christmas Eve, navigate the Tube with your gigantic suitcase – full of gifts and bottles of booze, simply to get you through it – and then endure the three-hour-long train ride, which is inevitably delayed because of a few leaves on the tracks.

Late evening, you arrive at your final destination – by which point no one wants to (or can) pick you up because they’re all cozy, or have already gotten three-quarters of the way through the Harvey’s Bristol Cream. So you get out £10 from the ATM and flag down a taxi (the regions still don’t have Uber or contactless), begrudgingly paying eight quid for a five-minute journey.

You’re clutching presents for the entire family, so you opt for the doorbell, only to be greeted with: “Don’t you have your keys?” from one of your disgruntled siblings. Merry Christmas to you, too…

Despite your monumental efforts to make it home on time for the big day, when you head inside the living room you discover that everyone has already eaten the homemade meal lovingly prepared by your mum – so you’re left with “picky bits”. “But don’t eat the party food – that’s for Boxing Day!”

And so, you find a spot on the floor (all the seats are taken, naturally) and nibble on your marmite toast, watching Home Alone for the umpteenth time and reruns of The Vicar of Dibley. Despite the rocky start, you make a conscious decision to throw yourself into the festivities and make the most of the holidays – ‘tis the season, and all that.

Then it gets past midnight. Everyone’s p****d on sherry (or “shezza,” as we call it in our house) and ready to head to bed. Despite the fact you were the last inhabitant of the upstairs bedroom and your Busted poster still takes pride of place on the wall above the bed, you are ousted by one of the couples. Their need to have a proper night’s sleep is much greater than yours, you see.

Your bedroom? Well, it’s actually the living room, repurposed. There’s an old camp bed in the shed for you to search for in the dark – complete with rusty springs and cobwebs. Oh, and a few spare blankets in case you get cold.

You have to wait until everyone else has vacated the room before you can get some shut-eye – and there’s no need to set an alarm, because you’ll get a lovely wake-up call in the morning when everyone barges through the door. Privacy is a luxury; something you have to earn – by finding a partner.

The buck’s fizz goes down a treat though. As does the bacon sarnie. You even feel a hint of the magic you once did as a little kid, as the winter sun comes pouring in through the frosted window panes and illuminates the tree.

Then it’s present time – which can go one of many ways.

More often than not, you are gifted joke presents alluding to your chronic singledom, to remind you how pitiful your life is. You may also get a Terry’s Chocolate Orange, despite the fact you’ve always been allergic to them, and a pair of socks – inoffensive, but very much demonstrative of how much thought went into getting your gift.

Meanwhile, you place the presents that you painstakingly chose for each and every one of them into neat little piles at their feet. Of course you’re more conscientious when it comes to gift-giving, though – you have way more time on your hands in the lead up to the big day because you’re not ice skating with your partner or doing other cute, coupley things. But again, you remind yourself of the spirit of Christmas and take pride in your selections as they open the wrapping paper with glee.

The real fun begins when your brother and his kids arrive, though. Given that you have no sprogs of your own, you are automatically promoted to babysitter for the day – he deserves a break, you see. But you, dear, don’t.

Whatever you do, do not attempt to sit down. Or have a drink. Or go to the toilet. Because the minute you do, the tantrums will ensue – and it’ll be your fault that Christmas is ruined. You must endure pile-ons, pranks and building the various toys they received from Santa while all the other adults get stuck into the Bailey’s.

The day after Boxing Day, you make the same trip back home. You turn the key in the lock and sigh with relief at the quiet, empty apartment in front of you: your sanctuary. But, once you’ve hung your coat up and settled on the sofa you realise something: you are alone once more. Bah, humbug indeed.

Do you have a problem you would like to raise anonymously with Dear Vix? Issues with love, relationships, family and work? Fill in this survey or email dearvix@independent.co.uk