I can’t believe it’s ONLY January 18. January is famous for dragging on but I swear it’s been hanging around for about seven months already. January is never meant to be the jazz-hands month of the year but this one feels particularly bleak.
Perhaps it’s because it’s so cold and we can’t even switch our heating on without thinking about that time when the KLF burned a million quid. Watching your smart meter rack up the costs kind of kills the vibe of a cosy night in. Scandinavian hygge gives way to Scottish hysterics about my energy bill.
Which maybe explains why all the restaurants are so quiet. Along with everyone being broke, there is also the tyranny of all those New Year health resolutions. This year I decided to spare myself the usual farce where one sets out health-based pledges with great solemnity in early January — like you’re the Prime Minister — and by early February you’ve broken all of them and are mainlining a four-cheese pizza and a vat of wine a night stuffed full of self-loathing.
This year I decided to reject abstinence and embrace a Drenched January and bring on the fun times (especially as I was ill over Christmas) but no — I can’t even have that because everyone I know is on some punishing health kick. They are also at that point where they have the zeal of the convert and insist on keeping you fully across ALL their macrobiotics, vitamins and even bowel movements. “Look, I can’t come to the pub. I’m only drinking Epsom Salts and snacking on potpourri so I do need to stay close to a loo — but I’ve already lost five pounds!” Suddenly a night in watching the smart meter seems more appealing.
Given that the fun police have killed off any social January joy, I thought this would be a good opportunity to organise my life. Big mistake. I started with a small “to do” list which grew and grew, then multiplied then took on a life of its own. I am now a slave to this list. The list owns me. And it will never get completed. It’s like painting the Forth Road Bridge. Every day I try to chip away at it, but it just gets bigger, laughing at me. And it’s so bone-crushingly dull, as all life admin always is.
There is no way of ever denting the list because we now live in an age where is actually impossible to get through to any form of customer service. When I am on my death bed and my life flashes before my eyes, a substantial part will be on hold to Lambeth council trying to speak to someone about the bins. And it’s not just the public sector… “Did you have a nice day off?” “Yeah, I waited on hold for seven hours listening to M People’s Search for the Hero waiting to get through to my bank. Then they cut me off.”
When you take a step back, it’s easy to see why this particular January is so miserable. The world is a bin-fire. We’re poorer and many of us are constantly sick. There’s only one sliver of hope. Thank God Love Island is back. Oh, come on. At least let me have that.
Emma Corrin’s tour de force
One thing did cheer me up last week. — a trip to the Garrick Theatre to see Neil Bartlett’s excellent stage adaptation of Virginia Woolf’s novel, Orlando, about a character who lives for 300 years as a man and woman and who samples all of life’s pleasure and pain. There are many lovers!
The story has an obvious contemporary feel, given the raging culture— and now political and constitutional — wars around transgender rights. I feared that it would be too close to the bone, given how toxic these discussions have become, but it could not have been more different.
It was a joy to see Emma Corrin, left — who identifies as non-binary — lead a cast in a production which was beautiful, funny and moving. Corrin puts in a tour de force of a performance — their star power and charisma on stage is undeniable. It was a tonic to explore themes of gender identity and non-conformity with some much-needed lightness and humanity.
