SAD, bad and dangerous to know

The weird thing about this time of year this year is that as yet I haven’t had the filthy cur of Seasonal Affective Disorder growling at me everywhere I go.

Take today. I left for work in the dark, came home in the dark, and spent about 15 minutes outside in the daylight. In previous years, this would have had me plunged into a deep funk, contemplating whether or not I should down a bottle of Sainsbury’s Gin after Eastenders.

This year, I feel totally fine, as though I’d spent the entire day out sipping iced tea and holding forth with delightful anecdotes, to the amusement of all aboard the barge.

I can’t explain it. Eastenders hasn’t got any better, and I can’t stop reading disturbing material about ethnic cleansing and genocide, but it doesn’t have any effect.

All-out war and natural disaster loom large, yet here I am, as though I’d just won 20 quid on a scratchcard.

Maybe SAD this year has turned me into a psychopath.

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