Róisín Ingle ... on staying in bed

I don’t have the energy for December this year. I’m blaming the rain. I know rain is our national weather genre and the constant dampness isn’t a total surprise but there’s rain and then there’s the rain we all run to the window to look at because it looks like someone tipped the contents of a lake from the sky to the ground.

Also, I dropped my phone in a puddle erasing all my vintage text conversations and all my umbrellas are banjaxed and I don’t have a waterproof jacket that I like and I’m cold all the time. I’m not generally the cold one in our house. I’m the warm one. The hot one, if you will.

So if I’m going around cold there’s something seriously wrong. And I’ve a sinus infection. My ears and eyes and nose hurt. All the orifices are complaining. And, look, it’s raining again.

Instead of jolly and fuzzy and lit by fairies, December is suddenly feeling like very hard work. I don’t have the energy for the onslaught of social events. Most of the time, wherever I am, I’d rather be in my bed.

Like now. I am writing this in bed, high on the strong painkillers that you are only allowed to buy after having a major in-depth conversation with the chemist. Eventually, if you are lucky, they say the magic words: “Do you want 12 or 24?” The question that shows you’ve finally convinced them you are sick enough: “36,” you say before scarpering home.

I’d rather be in bed. I’m going to get that as the automatic response on my email. “I’d rather be in bed,” my email will tell people unequivocally.

I will make exceptions for outings involving children because, well, their little faces and also they take so much of your attention that you don’t have to talk to anybody else.

I don’t have the energy for all the gift guides. This particular thing is apparently the perfect thing for that teenager you know and this is the perfect item for your tricky to buy for in-law and this other yoke is the perfect thing for that person you hadn’t even thought of buying a present for but you now feel you should be buying for.

It’s competitive gift buying for the masses and I’m not buying into it, I think while buying a clever kitchen gadget for someone to add to the pile of clever kitchen gadgets in their house.

I don’t have the energy for all the lists. I make more lists in December than I do in the rest of the year. I lose lists. I write lists with sub-lists attached.

And most lists have something to do with spending the money I should really be saving because I keep hearing there’ll be no State pension when the time comes and how am I going to do my post-retirement trip around the world with no pension?

I don’t have the energy for the novelty jumpers. I’ve taken agin them. My friend says there is a jumper going around featuring a reindeer that is doing Kim Kardashian’s “iconic” bottom pose. And that’s supposed to be funny but really I’d rather be in bed.

I would like to hibernate. I would like to curl up into a ball and just sleep just until January 1st. I know I'd miss the Christmas dinner and The Sound of Music but I've had 43 of those dinners and I've seen Julie Andrews climb that mountain enough times.

I know what happens in the end.

And the days, by the way, are too short. They are flashing by too quickly and the children keep saying “that was a very quick, too quick day” and I try explaining winter’s short days and summer’s long ones, but it just sounds made up.

I count my blessings. I practice gratitude. I play the John Lewis ad a few times. I try. I get out of bed and into work one dark morning. There is a little bag on my desk filled with reindeer food. It’s to highlight the Magical Reindeer Food Fundraiser which is taking place across 149 Tesco stores today and tomorrow.

The little bags are €2 and they will raise money for life-saving equipment in Temple Street Hospital but it makes me glum to think the hospital staff have to flog little bags of oats mixed with glitter to get the equipment they so badly need.

Is this SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder)? Or am I just sad? Winters usually cheer me up. I am usually happy just to be wearing 300 denier opaque tights and drinking hot whiskeys and listening to Christmas FM. Ah, Christmas FM. It’s the only thing that’s not annoying me about December. As long as I’m listening to it in bed. Ho, ho, humbug.

Public Displays of Emotion by Róisín Ingle is now available to buy from irishtimes.com/ irishtimesbooks