SO, that's it over for another year.

The leftovers from yesterday's feast congealing under tinfoil in the fridge, pine needles dropping in lacklustre fashion from the tree and a mountain of torn, crumpled wrapping paper languishing in the recycling bin.

While Christmas Day is one for family, my house going like a fair as the entire clan descends for dinner and general mayhem, Boxing Day is a time to kick-back and finally relax after all the festive rush.

Forget hitting the high street sales. If it isn't within a 10-metre radius of my living room couch, it's just not going to happen today, I'm afraid.

I'm always baffled when people talk about having the Boxing Day blues, portraying it as a wearying post-Christmas slump before their livers rally in time for a Hogmanay pounding. What's not to love about a day of non-judgemental sloth and gluttony?

The drill goes like this: lock the front door, close the curtains, unplug the phone and then consume turkey sandwiches and chocolate selection boxes until the elasticated waistband on my pyjama bottoms waves the white flag and begs for mercy.

There is television, of course. Lots of trashy fare which makes it a toss-up as to what will rot first: my brain or teeth.

During my childhood, Christmas Day was spent at my grandparent's house. Invariably this involved turkey lunch at the local golf club then everyone squeezing into my gran and papa's living room for some good old fashioned festive shenanigans: a singsong, playing charades, overzealous games of Twister and on one occasion laughing so hard after putting a whoopee cushion under my uncle's chair that I peed my knickers.

It was always good fun but at the same time I still felt a flutter of excitement at the sublime promise of Boxing Day which lay ahead uninterrupted and inviting like pristine, freshly fallen snow.

Back then the drill was slightly different: pester my mum for batteries (they were never included), find the loudest, most garish toy then play with it until my parents were half demented and dupe my brother into sharing his selection box treats after I'd eaten all of mine.

The only year it went badly was the one where I decided to turn my new doll's pram into a go-kart. I'd had it a smidge over 24 hours. The look on my mother's face as she caught me removing the wheels to attach them to a crudely constructed wooden bogey is one I will never forget.

Suffice to say, I spent the remainder of the yuletide season in the dog house, although with no regrets - that wheeled bad boy went like greased lighting. This year, I think I'll stick to watching box-sets.