Tim Dowling: A Moment of Clarity in the Bathroom Transformed My January
At the start of the new year, my wife and I found ourselves engaged in our annual debate regarding the official commencement of Dry January.
"January 1st is a holiday," I argued, all the while cracking open a beer. "That day doesn’t count."
"But it’s the 4th today," she replied, clearly unimpressed with my logic.
"And it’s a Sunday," I countered. "So Dry January should really kick off on the next business day."
"The 2nd was a business day," she pointed out, not letting me off the hook that easily.
"Not in Scotland," I defended.
Just then, our eldest child walked in.
"Want some of this?" I asked, holding up the beer bottle in an inviting manner.
"I’m doing Dry January," he stated firmly.
"When did you start?" my wife inquired, seeking clarity.
"At midnight on the 1st," he answered. "That’s when it officially begins."
I wanted to argue that the exact dates are unimportant; what truly matters is completing a stretch of 31 days without drinking, which could theoretically be done at any time. However, I knew that wouldn’t hold water: we deliberately choose January for these challenges. Ironically, despite its notorious ability to bring disappointment, we seem to enjoy making January a tough month for ourselves.
It all begins with the misleading notion of a fresh start. It usually takes me until around the 10th of January to grasp that all the unfinished tasks and obligations from December have merely followed me into the new year. This realization hits hard when I understand that those I owe favors to are not exactly thinking along the lines of new beginnings. By the 15th, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m starting 2026 further behind than I ended 2025, and I realize this cycle may persist indefinitely.
As my wife and I returned home from a chilly walk with our dog, a troubling thought struck me as I gazed up our street.
"Oh no," I exclaimed, "it’s bin day!"
Just like every January, the schedule for rubbish collection had shifted to a staggered timetable. And, as is customary, I had once again failed to keep up with these changes.
My wife observed as I dragged the rubbish bin down the path towards the curb, shaking her head in disapproval.
"What’s wrong?" I asked defensively. "Maybe the bin collectors are running late too."
"They’ve already come," she replied flatly.
Our fridge was stuffed with food nearing its sell-by dates, some of which we would eat regardless—assuming that fresh ingredients are only meant for those who are organized. The remainder stayed put for now, as our bins had no more room.
Despite its dreary nature, there’s something oddly appealing about January's despair, forcing you to seek out joy wherever you can find it. That’s what occupied my thoughts as I sat in my makeshift office, admiring a snowflake that resembled a pigeon feather drifting down outside, instead of tackling my tax returns. Just then, my wife strolled across the garden and entered the shed.
"The toilet isn’t flushing," she informed me, a hint of frustration in her voice.
"Ah, just another thing about January," I quipped.
"Pulling the chain doesn’t do anything; it’s come loose inside again," she explained.
"Well, what can you do?" I shrugged.
"Fix it," she insisted.
I knew better than to think these repairs were straightforward; our vintage, high-mounted toilet cistern, operated by a chain pull, had a certain nostalgic charm that did little to compensate for its frequent malfunctions. The mechanism relies on a single rivet, one that had long since lost its original structure, leading to it becoming dislodged and falling into the cistern—a mishap that occurs approximately every 40 days.
To add to the challenge, any repair necessitates climbing a ladder and working mostly by touch. Admittedly, I’ve experienced some of my least favorable moments in that position, but it was marginally more appealing than facing my tax forms, so I retrieved the ladder and headed upstairs.
I'm not typically one for sudden realizations—especially not in January—but while standing on that ladder, with my left arm submerged up to the elbow in cold cistern water, desperately searching for that pesky rivet, an epiphany struck me. I wish I could say it was a profound insight into life’s greater meaning or the role of beauty in a harsh world.
Instead, I had a practical thought: if I could locate a piece of sturdy galvanized wire, like the kind used for trellises, I could thread it through the rivet to secure it.
"I see," my wife replied, intrigued.
An hour later, we found ourselves in the kitchen, where I excitedly shared, "I did find some wire, and it fit perfectly! Then I bent both ends down with pliers so that the rivet can no longer work loose."
"Great job!" she said, impressed.
"You don’t understand—this is a permanent fix! Our lives are about to take a turn for the better!" I proclaimed with enthusiasm.
"Is it bin day tomorrow?" she asked, glancing into the fridge. "I think it is."
This moment serves as a light-hearted reminder of how life’s little victories can spark hope amid January's often-listless mood, encouraging us to embrace both the good and the challenging.
