I’m writing this post from the Piccadilly line on London’s Underground. I’m heading into Central London from Heathrow airport, and I’m on the final stretch of my journey home after almost a month spent in Malaysia with family.
I know how fortunate I am to get to spend every Christmas and New Years (except 2020!) with family who live a world away. I’m also grateful each year for the “London in January” feeling.
My train or car rolls past the terraced houses. Their brick exteriors and puffing chimneys juxtaposed with the grey sky. The cold bites through the opening and closing of the sliding doors at each platform—I smile at the irony of this part of the Underground being above ground where the cold can reach. I’m resigned to the fact that spring is still many months away, and that London’s weather feels artic in comparison to where I’ve come from. There is also a yet-to-be-processed sadness at having said goodbye to family so recently, blended with a bleary-eyed, jet-lag-induced stupor.
Despite the above, the London in January feeling is a good one. I find comfort in this city; in its size, opportunity, and character. I know it’ll take me a a few days, but I’ll feel settled and grounded in this city soon enough.
The London in January feeling always helps me mark out the beginning of a new year.