TS Eliot described April as the cruellest month, but he obviously never did dry January. I can’t bear this time of year: 31 dark days of self-denial, freezing weeks that are sober and skint, Christmas tree corpses lining the street.
It’s not that I haven’t tried to get into the spirit. Many times, I have swallowed the season’s pill of self-improvement and recited the “new year, new you” mantra. But no matter how much gusto I apply, a new me never emerges. I was about to give up completely when an email reminded me I still have annual leave to use up. Again.
I have never used up my holiday allowance, in any job. I’m not alone in this: an often-quoted survey found a third of Brits did not use up their entitlement, while two-thirds worked on holiday, scared perhaps of being left behind at work, or letting down overstretched colleagues. The two-week holiday has gone the way of the Nokia – cute, but irrelevant – and the shorter break reigns supreme (a cheaper option, though I wonder if we pay in other ways, with our health, happiness and the sanity of other holidaymakers forced to listen to Brits on conference calls).
Now is the perfect time for change, because the first Monday of the year is the most popular time to book a holiday: it’s our first full week back to work and we need something to make it bearable. This time, I’ll be booking a trip somewhere. Then I’ll book an extra few days off work, too. Maybe I’ll use them to extend my short break, and relax properly, or else spend them at home with my phone off, rearranging the cupboards, or just staring at the ceiling. I’m starting the year as I mean to go on, happy to lose the race to early death. My achievable, anyone-can-do-it, definitely life-improving new year resolution? Taking my days off, off.
