Sweet exhalation of the Greta Garbo of months

PEOPLE always moan about January. There’s even a made up date, invented by some travel company, which is supposedly the worst day of the year, and therefore the one on which you should book your holiday to get away from it all.

This terrible day is around now – somewhere in the middle of January. For the life of me I can’t figure out what they’re talking about.

January is beautiful. It is a giant exhale in an empty room. It is a big, cold, clean space, clear of clutter, free of expectation. It contains no fat.

It is alcohol-free, sugar-free, and entirely without turkey. January is brown rice, steamed greens, fruit that is not drowning in booze and cream. It is frugality, austerity. It is heavenly. It is the restoration of your inner rhythm, the reconnection with your inner hermit. It is the Greta Garbo of months. It wants you to be alone.

Obviously this only applies if you work from home and have been hanging on by your finger nails since the middle of Twixtmas, gagging for all your dependents and co-habitants to sod off back to school / college / work / the dog minder. Then that first day when they finally go…..oh my God. The bliss. The absolute bliss.

Forget going on some stupid post-Christmas holiday, with all the stress that entails — the anal probe at the airport and the weighing and measuring of your luggage gram by gram, the dry processed airport air; the DVT confinement of economy class; the disappointment of your tacky winter sun destination; and then having to make small talk with Bob and Linda from Manchester. For two whole weeks.

No, what you really want is a nice empty house. All the screens off — no bleeping, chirruping iPads; no televised canned laughter; no game consoles sounding like small furry animals trapped behind the sofa. No arguing children stood in front of the fridge with all of their friends, inhaling its contents. No under-exercised dogs bouncing off the walls, as the rain bounces off the roof and everyone refuses to walk them, even for cash bribes. No moping teenagers saying how bored they are whilst simultaneously tweeting, texting, facebooking, snogging and watching inappropriate pay-per-views for which they have no intention of paying.

No, they are all gone. The house is empty. Just you and your solitude. You can hear yourself think, and finish a thought. If you make a cup of tea, you don’t have to ask ten other people if they want one too. You can lie in the bath without anyone banging on the door — any door. And when the fog has cleared from your brain, you might actually get some bloody work done. Thank you, January, for always arriving, like the silent cavalry.