The Slog

January and how to survive it.

The woman who had her lights up at the beginning of November had the audacity to take them down on Boxing Day. Her lights, which were as chaotic and abundant as Times Square, foisted Christmas garishly upon us when it demonstrably wasn’t Christmas at all, by anyone’s reckoning. Now, as I walk past her bare house, it’s an ugly stain of a blot on an otherwise brightly lit street, and it almost pulsates with darkness like a black hole. I tell myself that it’s her choice, bla bla bla. Then my poisonous inner voice whispers with sarcasm, “Yes, let’s all do precisely as we like without reference to anyone else, as if we exist on self-contained islands instead of in interconnected communities. Christmas is all about the individual, after all.”

The older (and grumpier) I get the more I think that the freedom to do precisely as we choose without reference to anyone else (“you do you hun! Whatever makes you happy”) isn’t the zenith of human progress we’ve been told it is, and is actually probably the thing that’s making everything worse. But, you know, do what you like, I guess. Or don’t. Whatever.

God, I hate January. Taking the decorations down has to be the worst part of it. I don’t revel in “getting my house back,” as if it’s been taken hostage by the ghost of Christmas present and then grudgingly returned to me. Switching the lights off for the final time and packing them away in the loft, leaves the house so horribly naked and darkly bereft, that I try to put it off for as long as I can.

Most years we take our decorations down on Twelfth Night, but in 2020/21, that darkest of Christmas seasons in recent memory, locked down and stuck inside, we kept up all our lights and even our tree until candlemas, which falls on February 2nd. This is a feast day in the liturgical year, when the church recalls the baby Jesus being taken to the temple by Mary and Joseph, to give customary offerings and thanks. It was also traditionally the day when all candles for the coming year were blessed. It’s officially the end of the Christmas season.

Light is still scarce at the beginning of February, when the nights are long and spring is still weeks away. Light matters most in the deep darkness and it’s a precious resource. Our boxy, red-brick oblong of a home is the first one you come to as you enter our close and can be seen from the adjoining road. Our modest selection of lights, two glimmering snowflakes in one window, and gold stars in another, warmly welcome walkers, and whisper wishes of hope. The lights are our gift to our neighbours, as theirs were to us in December. Ours is a house shining in the dark misery of January, when all other houses have gone out.

Light is to be celebrated, honoured and cherished. I walk at least three miles every single day, and try and soak up whatever weak sun rays make their way through the greige sky. My route takes me into the woods and today I pause for a moment by an oak tree stump and still myself. I like to wait and watch for bluetits, and if I’m lucky I’ll spot them, bouncing from tree to tree like fluffy blue tennis balls.

As I wait in quiet expectation, hopelessly conspicuous in my yellow duffle coat, a spherical, absolute unit of a robin lands on the tree stump, with an audible thud. A feathery cannon ball of a bird. He proceeds to sing loudly at me whilst strutting bossily about, as if to say: “Bluetits? Pah! Check out ma’ fluffy red mono-tit!” (For some reason, in my head the robin is Glaswegian, which makes me wonder if I ate too much cheese last night.)

“Yes, yes,” I tell him. “You’re very cute.” He does a little dance on the mossy stump, and then flits back into the trees, one bough bending under his girth. I thought robin’s lost 15% of their body weight in the winter, but he’s clearly doing fine. Then again, it’s still a long time until spring. Of winter, this is just the start.

Depression, such a blight at this time of year for so many people, has to be vigilantly kept at bay and fought off with alacrity whenever it encroaches. I take this very seriously, hence the three mile walk. I don’t do dry January as a matter of course, but I don’t like to drink much these days anyway. Alcohol disturbs my sleep and if I don’t sleep, I spend all night lying awake, tortured by terrible thoughts, the 3am horrors which so many of us are familiar with. Then I’m too tired to go for my walk the next day. Then I’ll feel fuzzy and lethargic because I haven’t exercised, which means I’ll find it harder to sleep that night, and so on and so forth.

It gives me a sense of control to stick to my boring and repetitive practices which are simple but still feel like hard work at mid-winter, a time when they’re extra necessary. Eating plenty of fruit and veg, getting enough sleep, being outside every day and exercising. Avoiding things which stress me out, like most social media. Boring but essential building blocks. This is not just “taking care of myself.” This is survival.

Knowing the depths of misery and where that can lead, makes me more determined to stay afloat, with my head firmly above the surface. I’m treading water a lot of the time. Lots of us are right now. January’s hard. Last year I read Christiane Ritter’s memoir about the year she spent on Svalbard in the 1930s, and heaven knows winter in England is not that, but it’s still an impermeably grey grind. It’s an uphill slog which can feel like existing rather than living.

Some seasons be like that. It’s worth reminding ourselves that not everything exists to serve us or to see us flourish. Not every season can include opportunities for growth or joy. Some things are just hard, and that’s ok. We can practice resilience while we wait it out, and look for glimmers of grace along the way.

Some things are special because they’re only possible at this time of year. We’re addicted to orange and chocolate porridge, and have it most mornings. The oranges are insanely good this year, and when I stand at the stove, zesting a plump, vibrant globe into the pan, its perfume permeates the whole kitchen as pungently as Acqua di Parma. Since Christmas Day, when I received my annual box of Gylian seashell chocolates, I’ve been garnishing the porridge with a delicious mollusc or two. The warmth of the porridge slowly melts the chocolate, and I highly recommend you ditch any new year, new you diet plans, and try this instead.

After tea in the evening, me and Leo lie on the sofa and read our books in front of the fire. I have a hot water bottle nestled between my feet and a blanket on my lap, because since losing a lot of weight in 2024, I’m cold pretty much all of the time. I’ve had to buy thermal vests which I wear under my jumpers, and I’m still cold. Now I know why that robin was such a chonk. Fat is an excellent organic thermal vest.

When the light returns we won’t have this peaceful time, with the kids upstairs in their rooms, me and him cocooned on the sofa, my legs across his lap, a mug of red bush tea warming my hands. The world will wake up again and we’ll have to wake up with it. When the light returns in the evenings, instead we’ll walk our pug, Mr Bozzle across the fields, and our youngest boy will come with us to throw a frisbee. I’ll have my nightly potter round the garden, deadheading roses, picking sweetpeas, watering the plants. We’ll go to bed later and probably get up earlier.

As dark as it is now, in a few months, light will be light. Until then, it’s head down, shoulders up, cracking on. January never lasts forever, it just feels like it sometimes.