Bye bye January

How wonderful it is to be drawing to the end of January. Not, I should say, because I’m one to wish away time—no, I wouldn’t dream of it. But January always does seem a bit of a slog, doesn’t it? I’m well aware it may sound ungrateful to admit it, especially when I’ve had rather a lot to occupy me this month: two conferences, a handful of radio jobs, and even a couple of excellent nights out at the theatre. (I must mention Kyoto at Soho Place, which was not just good, but beyond brilliant. The kind of production that lingers.) And yet, I find the knowledge that February is peering round the corner rather heartening. There’s something in that first turning of the calendar year, the blank pages of January, that feels slightly unsettling. Too much time spent not quite knowing where one stands. Of course, for freelancers like me, that sense of uncertainty has its own peculiar sting. A busy Christmas season is one thing, but a January devoid of bookings—well, that’s quite another. It does nothing for the bank balance and even less for the nerves. This year, thankfully, has not been that sort of January. But there’s still been a fair bit of trudging about to corporate rehearsal rooms and filming in various draughty hotels. Add to that a good deal of time spent at home, gripped (like half the nation, I suspect) by The Traitors on BBC One. What a peculiar, nail-biting little show that turned out to be. In between all of that, I’ve been making plans. There’s nothing I like better than making plans. Holiday bookings, for instance, are a particular joy—especially once you’ve passed the midpoint of January and feel it’s time to look forward. Iceland, where Brayden and I ventured last year, was such a triumph that we’ve opted for another volcanic island this summer. Madeira, to be precise. The sort of destination that instantly calls to mind Frankie Howerd in Up Pompeii!—that gloriously unrepeatable sitcom of the ’70s, now relegated to a slightly awkward corner of the nation’s memory. I can’t think of Madeira without hearing Howerd’s line: “They used to call her Madeira, because she was just a piece of cake.” The things that stick with you, unbidden, are often the strangest, aren’t they? We’ve also got plans for a jaunt to New York in April, assuming work allows. There’s a show I’d very much like to see, and there’s always fun to be had in New York. Then there’s Japan—our trip at the end of 2024 was nothing short of marvellous. Brayden has hundreds of photos to prove it, and the Issey Miyake pieces we brought back have been waiting for an excuse to emerge from their wardrobe hibernation. I'll be rounding out the month on the telly as renowned Yorkshireman Sir Bernard Ingham, so it's not all been bad. But back to February, which I’ve decided is rather underrated. Yes, it’s shorter than the others, and yes, it can sometimes feel like a bit of an afterthought. But this year, I’ve chosen to embrace it as a month of possibility. My third novel is awaiting edits, which is enough to keep me occupied, and I’ve even been toying with the idea of returning to a little acting. That’s alongside a rather touching campaign I’ll be fronting for a charity very dear to me. So, all in all, I’m feeling optimistic about February—this overlooked little month, this bridge to brighter days. Onwards and upwards, as they say.