So it’s January. All the windows are empty, the days are short and dark, people are back at work, everywhere seems naked without the twinkling lights and decorations, and the only thing to look forward to now in the next twelve weeks is Valentines Day, an event of such regular disappointment it makes the three months before the clocks go forward seem ever so slightly more bearable.
Everyone seems ready for change now. This is the time of year when the Guardian’s supplements get that little bit thicker with job ads as people act on their new year resolutions and create a sudden rush of vacancies.
And in the shops people rush around trying to ignore the fact that things they bought as presents at great cost a few days ago are now available at a fraction of the price, and ignoring the obvious point that occurs to me annually: if only Christmas were a week later it would be an awful lot less expensive.
I’ve just spent the last week of my holiday, the week I’d promised myself I was going to catch up on reading, teach myself a new skill, plan the coming term’s lectures and finally unpack after six months, sick with flu. I have the sexiest voice on earth at the moment, all Barry White and about three octaves lower than it should be – when it works, that is. Sadly when combined with streaming eyes, dry lips and a constant sniff it sort of shatters the illusion.
Back to work next week when all I could really do with is a bloody good holiday. When’s Easter this year?