an open letter to January

Dear January,

Oh, how you try to fool us. You puff up your cheeks and make yourself look positively terrifying: a month of credit card bills that make one weep to look upon, joyless hikes to the gym on half a grapefruit/ a vial of some green gunk blessed by Gwyneth Paltrow/ whatever the latest fad is and bitter recriminations after the diet of Haribos and vodka that saw out the old year..

But that’s not what you’re about at all, is it? Really, you’re about the intoxicating feeling of a new beginning, if one chooses to think of it that way. Or the blank page of a new diary, perhaps. Or the transcendantly pleasurable couch + blanket + favourite film equation. Although you don’t want to admit it, January, what you actually represent is a time for drawing inwards, enjoying all the lovely things one has already, and the best, best fuel. You are a time for long baths, long walks and taking it just a tad slower.

January, I salute you. Without you in the year, where in the name of science would we ever get the chance to slow down and to enjoy all the good stuff?

In grateful appreciation,


P.S Could do without my part of the city masquerading as the first open air skating rink in Ireland these mornings, though.

P.P.S Is it alright if I just finish the last few pieces from the Milk Tray? It was a gift so it would be rude not to. If you are okay with this please give me absolutely no sign.

P.P.P.S Thy will be done.


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