For me, the chief defining characteristic of January is that it’s not December.  December, the party month, has always been a special month for me – probably due to the coincidence of my birthday and Christmas.  My Dad’s birthday too and also my son, plus a brother-in-law and a nephew, my best mate and my God-daughter.  So much to celebrate, so much to enjoy.  Then we get to New Year’s Eve.  No mistaking, New Year’s Eve is always an anti-climax for me.  All it seems to promise is back to the old routine of work, responsibilities, bills and shit.  In short, doing things that you’d rather not be doing.

But perhaps I’m missing a trick.  The clue is in the title really. New. Year’s. Eve.  It’s a new start, a new year, promising things like a summer when it might be warm; certainly for a few weeks it will be light until gone nine o’clock.  The only wood we’ll be burning will be on the chimnea out in the garden; being able to feel your toes; not needing quite as many layers; the sound of leather on willow… I could go on. Happy New Year!