I have always been baffled by TS Eliot’s assessment of April as being the cruellest month. Sure, April showers are inconvenient and often an unwelcome foil to the crisp days of early spring – but surely the dubious honour of the worst month in the calendar year belongs to January, traditionally a month of abstinence and forced frugality, one where the profligacy of weeks gone by finally comes home to roost; and all amid the miserable darkness and gloom that characterises British winters.
Most miserable of all, I find, is the onset of dry January. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am usually grateful for an excuse to take a break from the excesses of the festive period, but I often find that as dry January begins, my social life grinds to a halt. Suddenly, invitations to cosy dinners at a friend’s house, or suggestions of a long walk followed by an afternoon spent gossiping in the pub, are nowhere to be found – all because of the (extremely British) assumption that alcohol is a necessary component of almost every social occasion.
