It is compulsory to read this column while listening to Noddy Holder screaming, ‘It’s Christmaaaasss!!!!’ at the top of his lungs, because that’s been the soundtrack blaring through my new happy home.

This year is my first festive season in my own house – a sentence I never thought I would write. After a year of mayhem, exhaustion and freedom, now it feels like a dream to be nestling into the cottage I spent so long imagining.

To celebrate my first Christmas here, I’ve made it look as tacky as an American theme park: every window blinks with fairy lights, every surface shrieks with tinsel, and the same wonderfully irritating Christmas soundtrack they play in Poundland has been on a loop – my new neighbours must be thrilled.

Delighted by the novelty of now living somewhere big enough to actually have guests (in my old London flat, they’d have had to sleep under my desk), I went wild inviting everyone I’ve ever met, issuing invitations to friends I haven’t seen in years – come and stay! You can assemble your bed! 

I tell anyone who’s even vaguely nice to me in the village shop that they must pop over for tea, unconcerned by the fact they might not have anywhere to sit.

Over New Year, Covid allowing, I plan to have the house packed. My caravan is now tucked in my garden and at least three people can sleep in that. Although there is the minor issue of exactly how they will eat. 

The previous owners of my house moved out taking the contents of the kitchen with them – the oven, the blinds, all the white goods – although they very kindly left the light bulbs in place. 

On my own I’ve managed happily cooking on the caravan’s electric two-ring hob, although whipping up a full Christmas lunch is a struggle – luckily my guests like their turkey stir-fried.

Still, nothing can dampen my Christmas spirit. In the run-up I revelled in every festive activity Somerset has going – flitting between the illuminated gardens at the American Museum (glorious!), the lights at Stourhead (fabulous!), the moon exhibition at Bath Abbey (heaven!) and Snow White at Bristol Hippodrome, which my friend Rob is starring in, allowing Martin and I to take a box from which we spent two whole cheery two hours heckling him with, ‘He’s behind you!’

Given my Christmas-philia this year, you might not believe that at other times I’ve been a real Grinch. Like a lot of people with complicated family situations, at times I’ve dreaded the festive season. Usually I got through by comfort-eating Quality Streets and watching the EastEnders omnibus – kindly written so everyone in it faces more domestic tragedy than whatever chaos you have unfolding at home.

This year, however, everything feels different. Not all of my problems have vanished, but making a solid home for myself has helped me find peace. Perhaps it’s a cliché to talk about being thankful at Christmas, but I am. 

Thankful for a wonderful home, thankful for family and friends, thankful for all the readers who’ve supported me during this last year’s emotional highs and lows, thankful (though it’s easier in hindsight) for the challenges that gave me a sense of perspective. 

Thankful that one day I can paint this whole house pink and no one (except possibly Somerset council) can stop me.

You can read Katie Glass’s column, What Katie did next, every Saturday from 6am on telegraph.co.uk

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