Welcome to the end of December. Not quite Christmas, not quite the New Year. The No Man’s Land of the year.
The bit in between.
December has become that old relative you love dearly, the one you have fond memories of and look forward to seeing. But you really want them to bugger off now, and they just won’t leave.
The Christmas confinement (‘family time’) has reached fever pitch as marriages struggle to survive the nameless days all bleeding into the next, the kids faces all blurring into each one.
We have survived the festive jumper neck rash and the novelty earrings turning our ears green.
We have survived the Hiroshima effect on our bank accounts (just about).
And somehow we survived crossing the threshold into Church.
The children have been peeled down off the ceiling after inhaling selection box after selection box, before reverting back to playing with their old toys.
Our bodies have endured the turkey boot-camp and shocking amounts of dairy as we struggle to remember the last time we actually felt a hunger pang.
We have all tried our utmost to ‘relax’ in the good room in front of yet another year of crap TV programming (cheers RTE).
Emptying the fridge now becomes a challenge as we try to pass off surplus food on unsuspecting visitors before it hits its bye-bye date.
The wheelie bins have been stuffed with about four weeks worth of recycling, and we are left sweating over the next collection date.
A fine layer of dust settles over all the Christmas decorations, leaving a slightly jaded air about the place.
Like stragglers at the end of a night out, we are standing in the cold at the taxi rank, waiting for safe passage to January. This is the come down; this is the end.
And it’s feeling pretty bleak.
So come on 2018.