January is a dreary month.
The excitement (or anxiety, depending upon your circumstances and personal level of scrooge-ness) of Christmas is over. Your bank balance is in the red, which is possibly a good thing because there's nothing left in the shops except for the past season's fashion disasters (clue: it's in the sale, which means nobody wanted it when it was full price and with good reason). Your trousers are too tight from an excess of gluttony. Your skin is grey from lack of sunshine and months of central heating. And to top it all, the magazines are laying on the detox guilt at a time when all you want to eat is a comforting trough of rhubarb crumble and custard - the mere thought of a wheatgrass smoothie every morning followed by a bracing trot around the park makes me want to dive headfirst into the biscuit tin.
Yes, I have the January blues. Roll on February, March, April, Summer...
The excitement (or anxiety, depending upon your circumstances and personal level of scrooge-ness) of Christmas is over. Your bank balance is in the red, which is possibly a good thing because there's nothing left in the shops except for the past season's fashion disasters (clue: it's in the sale, which means nobody wanted it when it was full price and with good reason). Your trousers are too tight from an excess of gluttony. Your skin is grey from lack of sunshine and months of central heating. And to top it all, the magazines are laying on the detox guilt at a time when all you want to eat is a comforting trough of rhubarb crumble and custard - the mere thought of a wheatgrass smoothie every morning followed by a bracing trot around the park makes me want to dive headfirst into the biscuit tin.
Yes, I have the January blues. Roll on February, March, April, Summer...
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