It’s that extra-special relaxing week just after Christmas where we all step out of our usual space-time continuum and stop to smell the roses. The turkey has been carved, the presents unwrapped, the champagne sunk and crackers pulled. Our bellies feel flabby, our brains with fewer cells but content. We have caught up with family members, for better or worse.

Immersed in that pocket of time when we are unsure which day of the week it is but pleased that ‘the getting and spending’ is over and that we have survived the war zones that are TK Maxx on the last Saturday before Christmas and M&S on Christmas eve morning.

By the time Christmas Day comes around, we can all just sit cross-legged on the rug in the living room, wallow in a mountain of wrapping paper and give in to the Christmas chaos knowing that

as Christmas day unfolds there will be a surrendering to copious amounts of food and drink including overdosing on cheeses from all over the world and washing down roasted chestnuts with plenty of warm mulled wine.

It’s time to relax at home in our sheepskin slippers and loungewear. It’s that strange time of the year when we can be left alone to start on 1,000 piece puzzles; or start that novel that has always been struggling to see the light; or pop down to the charity shop to donate a pointless present or two, or head to the local cinema to catch up on Star Wars or Frozen II.

I generously spray myself with a new perfume, wrap my new scarf around my shoulders and go for a late afternoon walk, cutting through the park before it gets dark. My husband joins me out in the fresh winter air, helping us to digest our lunch as the day closes.

The pressure is off and we chat about silly things on our walk into the cool stillness. As usual, my sister-in-law remains undefeated at Scrabble and my Italian mother has drunk a fair amount of wine over the last couple of days to celebrate having her family together. I have made a seriously spicy mulled wine for everybody and managed to sing the carol The Twelve Days of Christmas from beginning to end, as it is a Christmas family tradition.

I was very grateful for my Christmas presents this year, including my very wonderful bottle of Chanel perfume, a bright pink Dior lipstick and some wonderfully ornate Thomas Sabo jewellery. When we get home, my husband wanders off to make a start on his Lego Star Wars model while I have a look through a few books that I received this year. Friends and family have realized that I’m into memoirs these days. I sit back on the sofa and put my feet up as the frosty winter’s evening draws in, a rainbow of Christmas tree lights softly illuminates the pages of Virginia Woolf’s A Writer’s Diary.

I find personal memoirs can be intriguing and a hugely positive influence. Perhaps because the writers are, not merely airing their opinions, but sharing their very real, sometimes challenging experiences from which they have emerged triumphant. Many of these life experiences are hugely encouraging. Once you put these books down the reader is left feeling inspired, with a sense that maybe they too can move forward with their own personal goals.

The beginning of a new year is a time when we are given an opportunity to re-evaluate our lives; when the media bombard us with images of impossibly fit bodies and when we’re asked about our New Year’s resolutions. It’s hard to resist the hype and I quite like it when the odd person tells me “My New Year’s resolution is not to have any New Year’s resolutions!” I like the Zen attitude of letting the New Year arrive and just wash over you, of finding a little me time, time to rest and ruminate a little on life, such a rare state of affairs in a society moving at break-neck speed.

  • Marisa Laycock moved from south west London to St Albans in 2000. She enjoys sharing her experiences of living in the city.