Ah January. Too many vowels, too little time, it rises baldly on the horizon, an awkward and needy wasteland. And we dash around upon it as if walking the dogs of our regrets, searching for our new selves in its bleak whiteness and swinging our dainty plastic bags of shit. We are looking for meaning or, failing that, some kind of structure within which we can enable change. A game, a routine, to help each other move forward with purpose.
I have a suggestion. Forget new year resolutions, forget dry January (which mad cow came up with this, by the way, this idea that January, a month of relentless rain, anxiety and sorrow, would be a good time to face reality head on, without even a colourful cocktail to take the edge off? Without even a little paper umbrella to protect us?). Instead, embrace the January transfer window. As in football, so in life – you have one month in which to barter and negotiate to create a new identity; a better, sleeker, more winning you. The deadline for decisions is dead strict and counted down live on clocks across the internet. There is something inspiring about the urgency, the pressure. It becomes its own sport.
