I had this crazy idea, about two weeks ago, that I would take some time off over Christmas. I’m talking proper time off – a month perhaps, or at least three weeks. Digital detox, with broadband hub disconnected, iPhone frozen in a block of ice and buried in the garden (to be defrosted mid-January), laptop shoved underneath the sofa, office door firmly shut and bolted. I was going to have the most Relaxing Christmas Ever, with endless cocktails and medicinal glasses of red wine, a roaring fire, songs around the piano, snow-sodden socks drying on the AGA.
And then I realised that I couldn’t disconnect the broadband because we still don’t have any and I couldn’t shut my office door because there were about three dozen unpacked boxes blocking the doorway. The medicinal alcohol would have to wait until the medicinal – er – medicine had kicked in (epic chest/cough/throat thing going on here) and the roaring fire was a no-go until the chimney sweep had given us the all-clear, and he couldn’t chim-chimney-chim-chimney-chim-chim-cheroo on down here until Christmas Eve. And then I also realised that my ongoing chest/cough/cold thing – coupled with lack of childcare and a house move and around three solid weeks of disturbed sleep – had set me back by weeks in terms of various work deadlines and that I’d need to beaver away in the evenings for a few more days, which turned into nearly a fortnight, and then I realise...