Here we are in the confusing bit of the year. Everybody has a different name for it and everybody tries to make out like their name for it is universally understood and accepted by posting it on social media.

Twixtmas. The Between Times. The Perineum. Food Week. Cheese Days. The Witching Week  A small group of creative mates of mine from Yorkshire call it Malcolm. It’s too late for consensus now, so just like with politics everybody just thinks their idea is good and the rest is bullshit.

The light has started to return. The days are getting longer again.

It’s a time when we all connect with each other and lots of us wind the self-indulgence out of our system before one last hurrah at New Year followed by a month or two of dieting and abstinence and overcrowded yoga classes and early morning jogging in the rain and trimming hairs and buying clothes and going on that dating app and making salad and phoning your great aunty in Sweden and deleting that number from your phone and sitting in a circle with strangers giving significance to a cup of tea or writing a poem a day or taking up horse riding or wakeboarding or choral singing, or signing up for an online course in web design or crochet or politics or pilot season.

Then the light comes back, the air gets warmer, and we take our new body and new mind and smash it into a bottle somewhere in the sun as Christmas goes back on the shelves in spring and the pounds go back on our bellies and it’s hot and oh God here we go the party, the party, it’s starting all over again oh God oh hell oh joy.

For now let us be restful. Let us make those lists. Let us buy those diaries and bury those intentions in the loam. Tomorrow we will be better. We will be happier. We will be richer. We will make the thing. We will rise up and find ourselves waiting. Love will tear us apart again.

I’m back home eating meat and cheese and about to sit and do a bit of devotion. I’m reheating a mushroom pie and drinking a glass of red wine. Ylang ylang is burning on the altar and the flat is actually looking pretty bloody good. Campbell and I did the basics and we are back to a reasonable state after a bit more work this evening. There’s a lot to think about for this coming year in terms of what I do with this flat, and how I go about my basic existence going forward. A spot of telly might lead to a spot more telly. Work breeds work, they say, and it’s true. And there’s no more room for me to be a spectator in my own life. New decade. I’m going to run faster, go to yoga and one fine day…

Oh yes. I’ve just written undercutting that whole sentiment. But here is Jack and I, caught plotting and exposed into posing.


There are big plans afoot. Bigger than that. Bigger still. That big. Oh yes, my precious. That big and bigly biggerer as the world goes to shit.

And so we beat on, ships against the tide.

Happy Malcolm.


Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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