IT WAS the death of the gas boiler that finally tipped me over the edge.

That Neolithic box of bent screws finally ground to a halt on the first snowy day last December — and a part of me died with it.

The plumber was very apologetic.

“I’m sorry Miss Perkins, the earliest we can fix it is next week. I’m afraid it’s Christmas.”

If central heating had been my only problem I could have put on a brave face, but unfortunately other miseries had occurred.

I had broken up with my long-term boyfriend and was experiencing an unrivalled sense of humour failure.

Added to my violin concerto of self-pity was the fact that I was skint.

My green car, nicknamed The Frog, had failed its MOT in a spectacular fashion.

And then my housemate, a teacher, had left Lancaster to visit her parents for Christmas, along with most of my Phd friends.

I was alone in a nuclear bunker.

The last of my wages went on two bottles of mulled wine, a multipack of Skips crisps and a (somewhat ironic) box of Celebrations. I opened all three and sat blubbering in front of Bridget Jones.

However, in the style of the classic Wham! Christmas hit, that was last year, and this year things are much improved.

No more rubbish men, no more death-defying winter commutes, stone-cold houses and meals consisting only of Cadbury’s Caramel.

I have moved to Kendal where I now live in a house with glorious modern heating. I started painting and running again, made some new friends, discovered the fells.

And this weekend I cooked a meal with the three people I now live with.

My tack-tastic fairy lights are up in the living room and the novelty reindeer jumpers are back. Miss Jones would be proud.