January can be a very bitter month. Take it from me.

Today my husband is leaving me and our two-year-old to fend for ourselves while he goes on an all-expenses-paid ski-ing jolly to Switzerland.

Instead of finishing the bathroom floor last week, as he had promised, he was pootering about town buying himself a ski-ing hat, a new suitcase and the Rough Guide to Switzerland (or, given the exceptional standards of living over there, perhaps it should be the Slightly Textured Guide to Switzerland).

He yodelled with delight when he discovered the salopettes he bought as a teenager still fit him, so he's been wearing them around the house since Thursday. And he's been doing strange leg exercises whenever my back is turned.

He's told me and Eve he's going to miss us, but I'm sure that when skis touch snow he won't give us a moment's thought. In his mind, he's probably already dancing with Julie Andrews and singing The Sound of Music. (Okay, so that's Bavaria. Same difference.)

And it doesn't matter how much he protests, I know he's planning his chat-up line ready for Heidi, the waitress.

"I just want to ski," he said, bending to simulate his downhill stance while the stitching of his salopettes separated his buttocks like a cheese wire.

"But they'll be plying you with alcohol, dragging you off to all those apres-ski parties, making you eat rich food and plunging you into hot Jacuzzis in the snow," I said, fondly remembering a few of my previous press trips.

"Sounds dreadful," he replied, forcing a frown. "You wouldn't catch me doing any of that. Umm..where are my swimming trunks?"

Under such distressing circumstances, I would normally have turned to my parents for a little attention and comfort. But, thoughtlessly, on Monday they're off to Australia for a month.

While Eve and I traipse across Preston Park towards the muddy slides and wet swings in the kids' playground, they'll be drinking margaritas on the sunny balcony of their hired apartment overlooking Sydney Harbour.

And while Eve and I huddle up together on the sofa of our tiny terrace in damp and dripping Brighton, watching Toy Story 2 on video for the 95th time, they'll be swimming with turtles off the Great Barrier Reef.

So, no husband and no parents. Even my in-laws have deserted me.

They're about to endure a week in the bleak and misty wastes of Aviemore. Compared with what is likely to be the highlight of my weekend - a splash in the pool at Burgess Hill's Triangle Leisure Centre - a holiday in the Scottish highlands sounds fabulous.

Take it from me. January is a bitter month. If it hadn't been for the fact that I had such a nice Christmas and received trillions of cards (thank you, Mrs Lowe and all those others who so kindly responded to my December lament), I'd be crying myself to sleep every night.

Oh woe is me. Perhaps my January lament will secure the offer of a nice, all-expenses-paid holiday for me and Eve next week. Preferably somewhere warm and luxurious.

Hey, you can't blame me for trying.