There are seasons when nothing is technically wrong. And yet everything feels slightly unsteady. You're busy. You're functioning. The fridge is stocked. The diary is full. And still - something feels untethered.

There are days when nothing is actually wrong. And yet everything feels loud.

The kettle's on. The house is standing. The people you love are mostly fed and accounted for. And still - your mind is pacing the room like a dog that's missed its walk. Restless, circling, occasionally barking at things that haven't happened yet.

January has a particular smell about it. Damp coats. The faint ghost of Christmas candles. The very specific existential scent of a new planner you've filled in with optimistic colour-coding that will absolutely not survive contact with actual February.