IÔÇÖve always loved living with the seasons. I embrace the yearÔÇÖs constant cycle of change with welcome arms, from the cold sunrises in winter, to the daffodils in spring, reading on the beach in summer to drinking overpriced coffee on rainy autumn days. The seasons are so sensibly laid out, and I always find myself ready for the switch just as it arrives. There is, however, one transition which has always irked me: December to January.┬á
December, as I think we can all agree, is a month of twinkling lights, staying in bed on cold mornings and gorging ourselves on hot meals , normally involving potatoes smothered in gravy. It is, perhaps, the cosiest month. January, on the other hand, is a month for which I picture plates of bland avocado toast, trips to the gym and a refreshed focus on work and deadlines. The dark and cold is no longer softened with roaring fires and fairy lights – It is a month of unavoidable difficulty. Not that my tradition of embracing the seasons is thrown aside entirely for the month, I still have a soft spot for January – itÔÇÖs a new beginning and a welcome chance to be the person you want to be.
Nevertheless, its place in the calendar next to December still feels wrong. The clunkiness of kissing a stranger at a party as the clock strikes midnight on the 31st to then get up for a run and trip to the library eight hours later feels like something of a post-festive slap in the face. ItÔÇÖs too drastic, too harsh, and altogether unnatural. So itÔÇÖs no surprise that so many of us fail to prioritise our January deadlines until we find ourselves in the month itself. What sort of Bob Cratchit inspired maniac cracks on with their studies over the festivities? Who sits in the lost week between Christmas and New Years in anything other than a cosiness-induced coma?┬á
Of course, the sad truth is that with the deadlines looming so shortly after the New Year, itÔÇÖs in most studentsÔÇÖ best interests to do exactly that. Last year I made the mistake of waiting for January to start my essays, and ended up blurting out ten thousand scarcely proof read words in the single week I had left myself to write them. It was not the type of week I would wish on anyone. As another January looms around that imaginary corner, letÔÇÖs hope we all have the self control to overrule the calling desire for Christmas films in bed everyday, and try to pack our books as well as our comfiest pyjamas in the suitcase when we travel home for the holidays.┬á Even for the season lovers like me, we probably wonÔÇÖt be that avocado-eating library-dweller in January that we imagine for ourselves now, so let’s not leave all the boring work to our future selves.
Charlotte Harris
