It would be easy to forgive a passerby to a wassail for thinking that to wassail is to simply sing songs about fertility and getting trashed while taking as many slurps as you can from the shared wassail bowl, for its contents are most certainly alcoholic. But it is oh so much more than that.
Before December hit I landed a handful of days in Paris- a city I had only ever passed through despite its renowned fame and so said infinite charm. Luckily for me the neighbourhood of Montmartre (where my Airbnb was) happened to be a winner in the Parisian stakes of romantic architecture and crooked charisma. After a potter I learned that this neighbourhood is also home to Pain Pain and I quickly assumed an almond croissant breakfast ritual (a dangerous consequence of staying around the corner from a bakery as good as this one).
The beginning of new years are weird things.
There is an overwhelming amount of expectation on it as if when the clock strikes midnight our lives will be renewed. All of our wishes for a bettered self, from ending our vices to starting all the health kicks under the sun are going to come to fruition as the clock ticks over to the first of January. Course they are.
‘Doh’ (as day 5 strikes and my resolutions shatter).