Christmas has its merits, but the novelty wore off a long time ago. Fairytale of New York's melancholy euphony will never get old, but tacky trees and unashamedly crass television lost its appeal years ago, if it ever had any.
Where Christmas is the fever, January is the prescription. It is the phoenix from the flames. It is the silent guardian of hopes and dreams. Aside from ending wars of mass-participation, New Year is the only chance humanity gets to share a clean slate. "Oh, that was last year," is a tonic that makes any unsavoury act that little bit less distasteful.
In January, anything goes. Trying something new becomes effortless, and sticking with the old becomes nostalgic. Despite what Wizzard might have said, Christmas never reinvents for January the lingering hope for unending festivity like summer imposes on September. The Christmas period is well-defined as the time ending at New Year and beginning in the middle of September when Asda is finished with it's "School's Back" decorations and knows that Hallowe'en just isn't big enough to fill its stores. That level of dragging out is more than summer usually gets anyway, and with torrents of rain in place of sun, sea and sand.
January's charm is aided by its lack of eternal life. December rears its ugly head in ever other "-ember," but the bringer of new opportunities, the laid-back, laissez-faire beauty known as January simply bides its time, revealing itself at the end of the show, like Shirley Bassey's money-note or a magician's second budgie.
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