Dear Home,

First off, thanks. You've seen us through another year. You've been amazing. Where to begin?

Thanks to you, the bathroom. The things you've seen. Don't ask. Those cracks around the edge of the bath, those missing tiles – they WILL be sorted. Promise. It's all over bar the grouting.

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Did someone mention shouting? Yes, no point pretending. There has been a little of that this year. Teenagers – it's what walls were built for. So thanks to you, as well, you fine structures that have absorbed so much over the past 12 months. Our own suburban Jericho.

Thanks to you, the living room too. You were our Olympic arena and our Downton library, our X Factor stage and our Celebrity jungle. We owe you. Not forgetting your trusty assistant, the sofa. What treasures you have revealed from your recesses over the past months – headphones and mobiles and iPods and the crushed Domino's box (all right, boxes).

The hallway. Home to some of the most abused skirting boards in the history of terraced housing. Even the dog won't sleep against them any more (no, that's because he's upstairs on the beds).

The kitchen. Sometimes the language here has been too much, even for the blessed Gordon. Sun-dried expletives and grated curses. Apologies. Let's talk about the dishwasher. We admit it. Sometimes we neglected your salt and rinse aid addiction. We were only trying to help. The methadone we've been using seems to have affected your inner workings, but we'll sort that in the New Year too.

Your daughter's bedroom. Apologies for those One Direction pictures pasted straight on to the wallpaper. No point telling her the value of the house is crumbling as result. You can't get into her room to do anything about it anyway. The invisible security systems here are the envy of the Pentagon.

The main bedroom. Scene of drama and passion, acts of athleticism and prowess, symphonies of movem- [notices partner over shoulder]. "Sorry darling. Did you want something? Um, working here... Why are you smirking? What do you mean, 'That will never get past Leveson'? Yes, I'm well aware of the journalistic code of truth, thank you very much. Hmph. Some spouses."