Digested week: through the Christmas perineum and out the other side

Monday

And so we find ourselves again at the Christmas perineum, the time between the end of the yuletide celebrations and before the new year shenanigans begin, and a phrase so awful I have felt compelled to use it as often as possible ever since the dark day I learned it about five years ago. Sorry.

Anyway. Despite its name it is my favourite time of year. I never refuse a pause in any activity if it’s offered. Plus this one is generally when people take to social media to give round-ups of their favourite reads and I never refuse a chance to do that either, so here’s mine: Marigold and Rose by Louise Glück, which will take you between one hour and 47 days to read, depending on how long you want to linger over each beautiful, endlessly freighted sentence; The House of Mirrors, because Erin Kelly is a thriller writer of genius; How I Won A Nobel Prize by Julius Taranto, which pummels your brain while providing huge fun; The Frugal Wizard’s Handbook for Surviving Medieval England by Brandon Sanderson and Connie Willis’s Doomsday Book, both about time travelling to the middle ages but otherwise as different as can be, which is what I love most about authors and reading and books and words and people’s brains and clevernesses in putting them down in orders that conjure essentially magical visions for me, and hurrah for all of it is what I’m saying. I am several perineal Baileys to the good.

Tuesday

Breaking news: those new year shenanigans we spoke of? They’re off. Largely. Edinburgh’s Hogmanay festival has been called off in the face of a looming 36 hours of high winds and rain. Other weather warnings have put the kibosh on firework displays and other outdoor events from Blackpool to Bangor.

All of which is galling for those keen to welcome in 2025 in the loudest and most impractical ways ever devised by humankind, of course. But I like to think instead of the quiet sighs of relief that must have been expelled by all those not keen to welcome in the new year in the loudest and most impractical ways ever devised by humankind, but who are annually forced into it anyway. What a gift they have just received, surely beating anything they unwrapped on Christmas Day. This is the greatest cancellation of plans there can ever be, and the joy must be commensurate in the closeted introvert’s heart. You can stay home. Or just go round to someone else’s. Then you can get home! Without a taxi or a bank loan to pay for it. At a reasonable hour and on your own terms! Oh, I wish everyone as much happiness in the coming twelvemonth.

‘It’s a New Year’s Day parade in England, Martin. We wear these ponchos with pride.’ Photograph: Alishia Abodunde/Getty Images

Wednesday

1 January: resolution time, baby. I resolve not to make them every year of course because I am so contrary and cool, but if I were to use this essentially arbitrary and meaningless division of our spans on this Earth to impel me towards self-improvement, I would probably announce my intentions to:

• Watch less Brooklyn Nine-Nine every evening;

• Add a new meal to my culinary repertoire and take the total to nearly three;

• Work harder, walk more, cull wardrobe, sort finances, declutter house, clean more, lose weight, see if this improves life or makes me wish I was dead. You’ve got to find out at some point, I reckon.

Thursday

So, to work! I’m actually not back til Friday – writing this! Which is all a bit meta, innit! – so I have time at last to collate all the advice in the media currently being offered about what trends to watch out for in 2025. I don’t want to get caught out again.

So far I have: sound baths, hotpants, “stripes on stripes”, mushrooms (in shampoo, tea, coffee and skincare, apparently – I don’t know if we’re still allowed to eat them if we want to fit into our stripy hotpants), V-waist jeans, tearrings (teardrop shaped earrings, which look lovely actually and I might wear them to my sound baths), fishermen’s knitwear, Shirley Temple cocktails (add a mushroom garnish! I’m getting into this), ballet pumps and a general doll aesthetic (I tried to look this up but my god, you get to porn very quickly this way), salmon sperm facials (even quicker) and chunky highlights.

But then! I turn to Vogue and they tell me that the concept of “a trend” is officially dead! Ooh, you clever little herd-baiting monkeys, Vogue. The crown is yours. Well played.

‘Happy New Sure Not Getting Murdered By My Wife This Year, my fellow Americans!’ Photograph: Evan Vucci/AP

Friday

Back to work. How does one do that again? I have become holiday-institutionalised. What? No cheese and crackers for breakfast at 11am? No alcohol before 6pm? Sitting in front of a laptop instead of the television? On a chair? At a desk? Are you mad? What nonsense is this you talk of?

And I don’t even have to go into an office. If I had to negotiate a commute at this point, I think I’d have to resign. “Dear Bossman. Cannot. The noise. The people. The escalators. Please take cat or child in lieu of notice. Most sincerely yours, Mangan.”

But I’ve switched off Brooklyn Nine-Nine, bought myself some mushroom shampoo, not yet drunk anything (though I have eaten a lot of cheese) and put two jumpers in a charity bag. 2025, I’m comin’ atcha. And I’ve read a proof of Victorian Psycho, which is out in February and is so weird and wonderful I am already adding it to my recommendations at the end of this year.

Right, folks – let’s do this thing!