IN MY kitchen, Nigella is the oracle. There isn’t a recipe of hers I’ve followed that hasn’t been a total success and, given that I have been known to add a cup of salt instead of a teaspoon or forget the sugar in a Christmas cake, that’s no mean feat.

If Nigella asked me to jump off a cliff, I would probably make like a lemming.

Would I stick my arm in a hot oven if she suggested it? Yes, and I’ve got the burns to prove it.

So, setting aside her implausible idea that all cooking involving Coca Cola is good cooking, I would generally trust Nigella’s opinions.

Herewith a pearl of Lawson seasonal wisdom: “I don’t do New Year’s Eve, I am afraid to say.

“The burden on you to be happy on these occasions is too great, and I think enforced jollity is depressing.”

I can empathise. At the time of writing this column, though hopefully not at the time of you reading it, I still don’t know where I will be as the clock ticks towards midnight.

There are currently three options: 1. We go to the ball at Knowsley Hall. Pros: As well as a Champagne reception, five-course meal and dancing, there is a piper and bacon butties at midnight, so no chance of accidentally missing the most important moment of the evening as we have been know to in the past. Cons: The ticket price, which is actually quite reasonable but, as my friend said before opting out: “You’ve got to have it to spend it.”

2. We go out for a meal. Pros: Guaranteed good company and a relaxing way to spend the evening. Cons: You can be sure that, whatever the general consensus at 8pm, there is no way the whole group will be content with a party popper in a restaurant at 12am. At ten to midnight, there will be a mad dash for the door and we will undoubtedly end up bringing in the New Year in the queue to a dodgy pub – again.

3. Stay in and have a hootenanny at home with the box of fireworks left over from Bonfire Night. Pros: Expectations successfully managed. Cons: See number 2.

Since I was a kid and we were allowed to choose two, yes two, videos to watch before singing Auld Lang Syne in the street, I haven’t yet managed a completely successful New Year’s Eve.

There was a fairly good one when a friend’s gold trousers dramatically fell down in a night club (but not perhaps so much fun for her), but that pretty much covers it.

There was the one when we thought it would be a great idea to wear fancy dress, and the third member of the group waited until two of us had slicked our hair back with half a tub of gel before changing her mind and deciding she didn’t want to be an alien (aka a Blue Peter reject) after all.

As the new Millennium dawned, I was standing in a front garden having a row with my (now ex-) boyfriend, completely unobserved by an oblivious drunk relieving himself against the hedge. That year, I did not vow to start as I meant to go on.

Admittedly, this was not as horrendous an experience as my friend with the gold trousers who, a magnet for New Year disaster, found herself under a waterfall of beery vomit at 9.30pm on Millennium Eve, with no way of going home to get changed.

If I were to follow the Word of Nigella, I would give up altogether and go to bed early, but for once (deep breath) I can’t agree with her.

New Year’s Eve is all about the thrill of the chase.

You may have a horrible evening but you have another 364 days’ pleasurable anticipation that, just maybe, next time will be worth it.

READ more of Laura’s columns at www.liverpooldailypost.co.uk/lauradavis

lauradavis@dailypost.co.uk