From now until March I’ll lean whenever I leave a building, preparing for the push of a biting wind. Evenings will consist of a rush to get home, racing through the darkness for the next train in case it’s the last. Then home to safety, to wait out the weather for the next 13 hours. In winter my body demands two things: additional food (normally in the form of chocolate) and rest. The couch is never comfier than in the darkness of winter.
We count down days to the Christmas holidays, to a time when we can forget about work, ignoring that it’ll soon be late January, when it’s Christmas that’s been forgotten. The holidays will be resigned to memory, all sense of goodwill exhausted, while the thought of another grey working year looms. Merry Christmas