January

The first month of the year has a bad rep. It's a scheduled hangover combined with an extended moment for contemplating your personal morass of debt. It's the month for looking in the mirror, locking bleary eyes with the unsightly reflection greeting you there and loudly proclaiming "We're fucked!"

Or not.

There's something sexy about the dullness of this month. When you have recreational sex in January it's made all the sweeter by the thought of all the poor souls out there doing penance for their Xmas overindulgence, joining gyms and reconfiguring their diet to include at least one item of virtuous unpleasantness for breakfast, lunch or both - as if starting the day in the depths of winter is made any easier by scoffing nonfat yogurt and wholegrain crispbread before having your toes frozen off at the bus stop.

For a hedonist, reading the London papers in January feels like a call to arms against the puritan hordes bearing down on this sinful city, ready to shove us all into vast, smelly gyms where we'll run on treadmills and be fed flavourless protein shakes until we submit or lose the will to live. Every morning the Metro seems to shout at me: Now's the time to eat well, enjoy a drink now and then, take enjoyable exercise (find a park, walk around in it) and get laid a lot.

Now, get out there and find some more lovers of the pleasures of the flesh...