I managed to skip most of January. I went to Goa, where I did yoga every day, ate curry for every meal, and absorbed a lot of forgotten family history. I bought impractical dresses, rode in tuk-tuks and befriended wild dogs. A toothless old lady stopped me in the street and gave me a blessing and a slightly manky old flower; obviously I gave her all my money and kept the flower plaited into my hair long after it was brown and dead.
In short, I'm now one of those annoying people who is obsessed with India.
I flew back overnight from one extreme to the other: to a tumbledown old priory in the countryside with my friends for the weekend, where we drank wine, played board games and went on walks. It was pretty perfect. I wore long socks and sat reading by the fire. I slept in the furthest-away bedroom by myself, the one with the little writing desk overlooking the Long Man of Wilmington, and basically pretended I was in I Capture The Castle.
And now... I'm back. I'm ashamed to say I haven't managed to do yoga once since India. My tan feels like it's fading by the minute. It's too cold to wear any of my new dresses.
I am, however, inspired to be productive, make this year count for something. I've been editing a book (in bed, wearing two jumpers, mostly) and I have new ideas buzzing around.
And yet... It takes so little to make me happy, and it also takes so little to tip me into abject despair. I came back with such good intentions. I have daffodils in my house and new fairylights, and it's cosy in here. It's not awful being back.
But I also still can't decide if I should get a cat, and my favourite person is going away, and there are so many things I should be doing that I never have time for... and this morning I made my coffee, ate a ham sandwich, and then spent twenty minutes crying to this song and I'm not even totally sure why.
'For what it's worth, I love you
And what is worse, I really do.'