I was feeling tired, unwell and as grumpy as hell when my husband arrived home after four glorious days on a skiing trip to Switzerland.

"Oh, what a fabulous place," he said, plonking his bag of duty frees on the kitchen table while I rooted around in the tea towel drawer for stray paracetamol.

"Let's move there. You, me and Eve. I'll get a job or become a burglar. It would be perfect."

I didn't respond, my need for painkillers being more urgent.

"And I've got some special presents for you and Eve," he continued, undeterred by the lack of attention.

"Uh huh," I said, popping something that looked vaguely medicinal into my mouth.

He revealed the contents of his Zurich airport plastic bag. It contained a bottle of malt whisky, which I don't drink, and a bottle of Appenzeller, which, for those unacquainted with it, is a nasty, herbal liqueur favoured only by the Swiss and my husband. I could barely contain my displeasure.

"And I've got you this, too." He handed me a nicely wrapped parcel that contained an extra large T-shirt covered in cows. "It was the least cheesy thing in the shop," he added, apologetically.

"Lovely," I grunted. "I'm off to bed."

"But I haven't seen you in four days. I thought you might want to talk to me. I've missed you and Eve."

I ignored his hurt tone and headed up the stairs. This hadn't been the homecoming he'd expected, or the one I'd intended to give him.

I had actually been quite excited about the prospect of his return and was originally fully prepared to listen to the minutiae of his Swiss itinerary. But earlier in the day some sort of infection had taken hold of me and was making me feel queasy.

Then the weather had taken a turn for the worse and the wind began howling through all the gaps in the house that my husband was supposed to have draught-proofed last summer.

All this was on top of several sleep-deprived nights caused by Eve waking at random and shouting out, "I want my daddy," and not being at all happy when he didn't materialise.

It took a lot of persuading and promises of unlimited access to the Toy Story 2 video to calm her down.

So, sadly, by the time he arrived home, he was not in line for a hero's welcome. More of a "there's some cold lasagne in the fridge, if you're interested," sort of greeting.

It's not that I begrudge my husband having a luxury, all-expenses-paid trip. It was work of sorts after all (he'll have to write a travel piece about the ski resort).

And it is the first time he has taken up any offers that have come his way. Let's not forget I was lucky enough to attend an enthralling four-day work conference in the Midlands last year.

It's just that January, as I said last week, is positively the pits. Christmas already seems like six months ago and this month has no redeeming qualities (you can take that as a challenge).

At the moment, I don't think I'll be able to smile much before April. He'll have to save his skiing tales until then.