IT was The Repair Shop that got me in the end.

Picture the scene: It’s a cold, wet December evening, Christmas is coming and I’m nowhere near ready for it. I’ve run out of wrapping paper, in the middle of a present-wrapping marathon; the cat has made off with the Sellotape roll; my to-do list is getting longer; my money is running out; the boiler is playing up; and I seem to have had a cold since mid-October. It’s fair to say I’m not feeling Christmassy.

“All this fuss, for one day!” I mutter, stringing up the paltry half dozen Christmas cards I have received so far - despite sending out about 40 of them. “Stamps! Stamps cost a fortune,” I chunter, stepping backwards off the coffee table I’m perched on to hang the cards up. Sprawled on the floor, I spot the missing Sellotape under the sofa. I reach for it, like it’s a life raft, and it rolls further away. “I can’t be doing with this! Christmas can get lost,” I whimper, trying to get up with all the dignity of a circus elephant.

It’s at this point that the Ghost of Christmas Past turns up, to show me the true meaning of it all.

I say ghost - it’s actually an old Christmas special of The Repair Shop, but it does the job. Five minutes in, I’m welling up.

Who cares if it was probably filmed in August? Who cares if the repair team don’t really work in the barn every day (although I like to think they do). It’s the loveliest programme on TV.

It’s a simple format - people bring in cherished items that tell a family story or a slice of social history, but have seen better days. A team of experts in various fields, clock-mending to ceramics, carpentry to saddle-making, set to work on the treasured possessions, restoring them to how they originally looked.

A mechanical doll was among the items in the Christmas special. “I can’t be repaired, but Susie can,” said Maureen, who brought in the doll, which helped her to walk while in quarantine with childhood polio - a disease that had returned in later life.

A restored train set brought joy to a man with MND, who’d played with it in Kenya as a child with his cousin. An old German Christmas decoration, rotating for the first time in years, lit up the eyes of a grandfather with dementia. A beloved harmonium, broken and silent since its owner died, played carols once again, to the delight of his daughter and granddaughter. I rarely cry - I think I’ve only cried once this year, at a clip on Gogglebox of a turtle being released into the sea - but The Repair Shop moved me to tears. If this show doesn’t bring a tear to your eye, you’re pretty much made of stone.

In a throwaway age, it reminds us that things can be mended and given new life, thanks to traditional skills, crafts and a lot of patience. Everything is done by hand, lovingly and painstakingly. Each treasured keepsake - a rocking horse that lost its rock, a violin that survived the Holocaust, a dilapidated Chopper bike holding memories of a special Christmas morning, a shabby teddy bear belonging to a wartime evacuee - is treated with great care by this remarkable little team of artisans, before being handed back to its family. Sometimes there are tears, gasps of delight, sometimes a quiet smile. There’s always a heartfelt “Thank you”. But there is nothing mawkish about this programme. It is simply joyful.

The Repair Shop is, of course, hugely popular, but if you haven’t yet watched it, please do. It has restored my faith in humanity. As the credits rolled, I wasn’t exactly dancing around the house, calling out of the window to a Victorian street urchin to buy the biggest turkey he could find. But I did get over myself. I looked at the Christmas cards hanging up and was reminded that those people had made the effort to write and post them (I’ve since had a few more). Despite running out of wrapping paper, I’m lucky I have loved ones to give presents to. My boiler hasn’t quite packed up yet, everything on the to-do list will get done, and I’ve finally found the Sellotape. I’m thankful for small pleasures. Happy Christmas.