Monday the 6th January arrived and I was yet to vacate myself of the Christmas spirit. I was, in a word, unwilling. Unwilling to start again. Unwilling to consume food that wouldn’t mark me for an early death. Unwilling to respond to something as arbitrary as a morning alarm. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Foucault would not approve! Some call morning alarms technology. Some call them necessities for an organised life. I call them a fucking nuisance. Let me sleep. The Christmas tree is still standing. Let it stand! Someone made the effort of cutting it down. Hauling it onto the back of a truck. Then I hauled it into my house. It was decorated. It stands aglow. A representation of peace and freedom and consumerism. Now you want to send me back to work? Get a grip. We are free people. We won’t be pushed around. There are no rules but the ones you let them inflict upon you.

Resist.

If I want to watch Love Actually at 10am on Tuesday the 7th of January then let he who has never truly indulged cast the first stone. I’m going my own way. This is a hill I will die on. Christmas must go on. What’s the rush to cull it? All that effort to get it together, and now all this panic to pack it back into a box; to put it to bed. It cost a fortune, you know. Remember two weeks ago? You were desperate for the work to end. You were drunk and merry and vowed never to answer to a master again. You crawled onto the sofa, battle-wearied. Now you’re chomping at the bit to send emails. There’s a word for this; masochism. And you call me insane? I think not.

Let them wait. Let them all wait. Let it snow. Grind the country to a halt. I don’t care. I welcome it. The Christmas tree stands. Let’s see how we go. See how we feel about Christmas lights in March. Maybe then I’ll hear you out. But until then, Shakin’ Stevens.