Or on and off, up and down—balance, I suppose, but the balance of a seesaw, a swing in motion, not a precarious stillness. This week in London has been a steady alternation between busy days and slow ones. I didn’t plan it this way, but it happened that the mornings I went swimming or to yoga were also the afternoons I went up to central London to go shopping, to meet friends, to a gallery performance, or to a family party. And the days that I didn’t, I stayed inside listening to the morning rain, reading magazines and noodling on Pinterest (the siren song of the IKEA hack), doing the crossword, going for a short walk when the sky cleared. I don’t know if it would work for an actual daily routine, outside of the weird obligation-hiatus (or at least, obligation-reorientation) that is the festive season, but I’d like to take this rhythm into next year, clustering appointments and errands and exercise, buffering them with rest.
Next year. Next decade. I am sure I’m not alone in feeling inundated, since at least Thanksgiving, with lists and memes and essays struggling to take stock of what’s passing away, distill what’s valuable, as though we’re all about to board a flight with only a carry-on for our best-ofs. It all makes me feel a bit like the strung-out drug dealer/philosopher Danny in Withnail & I, lamenting the end of the sixties, “the greatest decade in the history of mankind,” and the failure of its promises: “they’re sellin’ hippie wigs in Woolworths, man.” Obviously, neither the grandiose claim nor the symbolic collapse can hold the weight of all the time that’s passed, everything that’s changed. And so I haven’t felt inspired to make my own list. This year it feels as though I’ve read as many manifestos against the best-of list as I have actual lists, yet the obligation to make them, on the part of critics and editors, only seems to increase. I’m interested in the way such rituals get grooved into the culture, at this receptive time of year—like the ugly Christmas sweater party or showings/viewings/discussions of the execrable Love Actually. When you watch traditions get invented and instantiated in real time, it’s easier to see the stitching and the gaps, and to feel frustrated that other people pretend the damn thing is watertight. Which is a long way of declaring: I will have none of this enforced nostalgia and packaged reminiscence! Culture isn’t a checklist, a race, or an argument. (This is probably laziness masquerading as principle, but it’s also a larger point worth remembering at this time of year: NO is a valid option.)
I’m taking next week off and I’ll be back in the new year. T and I are going to have a stab at a new tradition by going back to Batty Langley’s, the hotel in Spitalfields where we spent New Year’s Eve a few years ago. It’s a gorgeous, quirky, historic townhouse, with four-poster beds and roll-top baths and big metal keys and all kinds of 18th-century trappings, and appropriately Christmassy, according to Instagram:
So see you on the other side. In the meantime, have a wonderful festive hiatus, celebrate whatever and however you do, and if you need your spirits lifted, read this *impeccable* Guardian blind date story, and the unexpectedly touching commentary.