Uh oh! Grim realisation as I left work in the pitch black on Thursday evening (yes, that was me you saw out the window! The only person in the city who went to an office on the 2nd January!)...
is London the worst place I could have ended up at the beginning of January? By the time I’d made it to the front door I was crumpled into a state I imagine arrives moments before hypothermia sets in, when you must adopt the foetal position and be bundled up like the last of grotty Christmas turkey in an emergency foil blanket. I fell into the sofa cold , sad, still a bit hungover, defeated — so yes, quite the sight. There is something smug about being in the city between Christmas and New Year Eve; it’s a badge of honour for a true Londoner .
It then doesn’t matter whether you are horizontal in bed in Brockley or Barbados on New Year’s Day. That all changes when the clock strikes midnight, the horses turn back to mice, the enormity of another 52 weeks gradually (at first — then all at once) emerges, and the blood-curdling banshee wail of the morning alarm drop kicks you, winded, into the working year. This non-consensual scenario is not reserved for Londoners , of course.
However this week, those elsewhere are looking forward to drawing the curtains one day to find everything in view has been coddled up under a fresh snowy sheet. Here? We’ll settle for black ice and slush all washed away with a downpour . The glamorous beings one relies on in town for little pick-me-ups .