I’ll be totally honest. I hate New Year’s Eve. I dread it. I can’t wait for it to be over. It’s like 52 Saturday nights all at once, the ultimate expression of I-will-have-the-best-time-of-my-life-this-evening-if-it-KILLS-me. So, inevitably, I don’t. Last year, I was out of the country. And this year, I was going to be in the country. Well, the countryside at any rate.

Thanks to D’s super-organised friends, a group of four cottages had been booked at Treberfedd Farm, as far back as May for 20 adults and a handful of random children (they weren’t actually that random, they belonged to three of the couples. Thankfully, they were to have their own cottage).

It was in deepest darkest South Wales (or maybe West. Or North. My geography is hazy. Near Lampeter, at any rate), and set on a massive farm. It turned out to be a cluster of very attractive stone buildings, and each cottage had its own different design; the one D and I were sharing with another couple had flagstone floors, the kind of chic wool blankets you’d get in an interiors boutique in Islington, and a real log fire. It was awesome. It was also incredibly Peter’s Friends (the place even had it’s own welly store, for God’s sake. There were a lot of Hunters in it).

Anyway, for the three nights we were there, the plan was that someone different would cook dinner every night, and NYE fell to the amazing L, the superstylish girlfriend of one of D’s best mates, and what a feast she’d prepared. It involved four massive legs of lamb, a ton of carrots (almost literally), some couscous, salad, yoghurt with pomegranate seeds, humus and pitta bread, and a showstopper of a dessert: spiced pear pavlova. With a mountain of booze to wash it all down, obviously.

After a frenzied couple of hours prep, where most of the WAGS pitched in as sous chefs (it was okay, the blokes were scheduled to clear the dining room up the next day), dinner was finally served around 9pm. And it was utterly delicious.

The lamb shoulders had been slow cooked for around 7 hours, and marinated in a combination of Moroccan spices, and served with the carrots and pistachio-studded couscous, it was North African deliciousness. The yoghurt cooled it down, and the very nice Rioja we had it with made it even better.

Then the dessert was brought in, with a rather fabulous indoor firework on top of it. That, too, was utterly mouthwatering; the meringue was the perfect ration of crunchy and chewy, topped with thick, whipped cream, poached spiced pears, and a glamorous touch of edible gold glitter.

We stayed up until the small hours, drinking and playing my favourite outrageous new game:  Cards Against Humanity, which is basically South Park in a box. It goes beyond the realms of bad taste and is just, essentially addictive.
The best bit? Getting to bed took less than 45 seconds.