WHAT a relief – it’s the first week of December. To my children this means Advent has arrived and calendar doors can be ripped open.

To me it means something far more important. Tomorrow night is the final of ‘I’m A celebrity Get me Out of Here’ and I can get my life back.

Okay, there, now you know. I am a sad obsessive who annually takes a delight in watching a group of celebrities (I use the word loosely) eat Kangaroo penis in a jungle and squabble about who gets to sleep in a hammock.

For my husband tomorrow night cannot come soon enough. He has been forced to endure the sight of women in swimwear nightly for three weeks and he tells me that he is bored to tears with it.

I can now turn my attention to Christmas. Undertake a trip to the allotment to assess what veg will be making an appearance on the festive table.

Am hopeful that parsnips will be the star of the show. There is certainly a lot of leaf and I can only hope that the root will not let me down.

Husband will be making his first ever contribution this year, with brussell sprouts. They are the size of peas at the moment (really small peas) but I try to reassure him. "They’ve still got three weeks growth in them, " I tell him.

I rise above the temptation to throw his words back at him from last Christmas when he first made the decision to take on part of the plot. "Next Christmas the table will be groaning under the weight of my produce," he boasted. Oh well. In this season of goodwill it would seem mean-spirited of me to bring it up. I am looking forward to turkey with all the trimmings and a good serving of humble pie.