The London Eye
In fact I hate January so much, I even made my heroine in my third 17th century novel hate it too, allowing my angst to vent through a sixteen-year-old girl. How sad is that?
Christmas is a fond memory and the last of the chocs got put in the bin a week ago – you know those, the yellow wrapped toffees everybody ignores to get to the nut and soft centres. The decorations are back in their boxes and the weather forecast is for wind, rain, possibly snow and more rain.
What’s to look forward to before spring – not that spring is a certainty in England. For all anyone can tell it will stay wintry until July. Does anyone feel the same, or do you have a fondness for the first month of a brand new year?
My critique groups have slowed down to a crawl, what my Southern friends would say, ‘slower than molasses in January’ – and there’s a distinct lack of enthusiasm amongst the online community for publishing in general, all blamed on the so called depression. All that hype has affected everyone.
Roll on February, it’s marginally less depressing. Maybe.