January, or: In defence of hibernating

It’s January, commonly regarded as the shittiest month of the year. We’re all riding a heavy post-Christmas comedown, grinding through our workdays without the promise of a glorious week spent gorging on Quality Street and turkey to keep us going. The dark evenings no longer signal a cosy evening wrapping presents by the Christmas tree but yet another miserable commute home followed by a warmed up can of beans because in December we spent all of our funds and then some. January is a month of less: less money, fewer plans, and a sense of acute loss after having packed away the festivities for another eleven months. If I sound like a killjoy extraordinaire, it’s because I am it’s because I’m still getting used to a reality without naps at noon and a wholly acceptable misremembering of exactly which day it is. I’m sorry.