Word Perfect ~ Susie Dent : January Words

 A January Journal (with all words, exactly as given)

January arrives a little Crambazzled, a touch Katzenjammer from the old year’s din, and yet ready to Handelen—to act—despite the confusion of Janus Words and Contronyms that make resolutions sound both solemn and slippery in the Journal we swear to keep. Some mornings the aches are pure Humdudgeon, other days it’s honest ergophobia, but the calendar still insists we Lick into shape whatever the festivities left ventripotent and the to‑do list still maddeningly quiddling.

We wake and Pandiculate, a stately yawn into daybreak, then a rogue stermutation that startles the cat, an affectionate osculation on the doorstep to the year, and doors that pandere—open—onto unfamiliar light. The mirror throws back little echoes of last year’s habits, a carnival of Echoprascis, while the dream you half‑remember, some Yawmagorp of ambition and doubt, lingers like fog.

The Gym calls, and somewhere in memory the old Athenian Cynosarges glints, inviting a Peripatetic circuit of thought as much as of track; the body finds muscle, the phone sets an alarm, and yet dysania and clinomania argue their lazy case from the warm side of the duvet. Bells in the lane go dong-ding—but the teacher in your head mutters Ablaut reduplication wants the proper order (ding‑dong, flip‑flop, tick‑tock), and so you lace up anyway, smiling.

Work returns like a cold plunge: budgets grossing the rubicon, colleagues pinging “Kasa Kosa?” as if the year were a Lottery whose prize is Snow for some and monsoon for others, where Grammar needs tidying, Color needs choosing, and the whole Hiberncale hum carries on. There is Snudging in the corridors—penny‑pinch here, corner‑cut there—but also honest snuggling of teams banding close against deadlines. The first board‑pack headline is a Screamer, the backlog is Baffling, and someone sends a meme of a coconut going Berserk under spreadsheets. The night sky—city haze willing—still points to Welsh for bear in the stories we tell, and you hunt Ursha Major (yes, even mis‑spelled by the stars in your notes) to steady the compass.

Back on the Computer, the inbox says Forswunk and your tongue tries a hush of Lalochezia (so satisfying), but the mind strays to Daphne fleeing change, to Potamides whispering “flow,” to the blinking cursor’s brief Oblivion. By the third week the afternoons turn Lethargic and the plan begins to Arsle, Arsleing a step or two backward just when momentum mattered. A headline somewhere sounds Jingoistic, your brainstorm says abraccadabra without the trick, so you give the sprint The Acid Test, and over team drinks—Whisky, Hooch, a joke about Bootlegging and Moonshine Liquor—you sift the wheat from Chaff, keep the playful badinage, and spot a bit of Serendepity hiding in plain sight.

The month is gloriously Onomatopoeic—keys clack, radiators hiss, scooters whirr; a sudden Snottinger dab salvages a sneezy meeting; someone shrugs “Damfino” and the room laughs; a Maverick idea finally sticks. And yes, the strategy still flirts with Cakeism—have it and eat it—but January forgives us our paradoxes. It lets us be crammed and dazzled, weary and willing, stretched and sneezed upon, kissed hello and opened wide; a month that teaches us, in its own cranky poetry, to act, to revise, to echo, to choose, and—above all—to begin.