Your brain my find the concept of trips around the sun helpful, but it is also a bit of a mind-trip.

The lovely first lady of Momo said to me yesterday: “I am losing whole decades now.” And she is right. She’s not batty, she’s simply paying attention to the great time heist of our age – whole chunks of ten year experiences are vanishing. Be honest, if you’re over thirty, what the hell have you done with anything since the millennium?

Now, I would publicly say in answer to this question that I’ve been doing my best work and having some of the finest years of my life. Both of them. Or three at the outside. Because no way in hades is it fifteen years since I was at a particular friends’ home dressed hastily as Adam Ant. For one thing, how the blazes is it that I am going to their home again tonight? Did nothing interesting lead me elsewhere in the intervening 180 months?

Well, in actual fact, we haven’t seen these good folk properly in ages, much less been round for a new year party, so I’m sure we’ll have one or two stories to make ourselves sound active from the period between these social skirmishes – but that doesn’t mean someone isn’t buggering about with spacetime. Or that I can’t still get into those leather ladies’ trousers.

I would like to make clear that should this temporal wizard be dimensionally bound and brought to justice any time soon, I do not wish to give back any experience or beard-stroking wisdom gleaned from this past decade and a half. But I would very much like to have some of the years again, so I can use them more cannily and a little less comfortably. And at the right speed this time, not, Einstein-ramming speed.

The twelve month cycle is good for the brain, of course. It helps its animal rhythms package progress into a concept of linear reality we can cope with, keeping the howling terror of the endless night skies just about at bay before we suddenly die without finishing our album. But it also means that by December, your brain is beginning to give up. Pay less attention. Imagine the sofa and a blanket and a terrible old film… a lot. Which is bad news for anyone running a business in a shed on their own with pressing deadlines for January. And it’s a particular shock for the noggin after a season of nog come January First when in just one disappointing night, your energies and vision are supposed to be – PING! – back to full for another year.

I favour hibernation. Didn’t used to. But I now listen to my wife’s lifelong wisdom in this respect. Sleep is good. Sleep is sweet. And the dark, frozen, boiler-bending months could easily be half missed in most people’s opinions. Much as I love chunky jumpers and warm wine with bits of the garden in it and sparkly stomps across other people’s boundary-obscured land. Snoozing and snuggling the misery away sound increasingly favourable to me; I’ve had my fill of productivity for a bit, thank you.

Which is a bit of a bugger when you are one percent away from finishing your new album after all.

Yes. Somehow, as I sit here tinkering with the mix of the new promotional single for Momo:tempo, basking in its sunny Saturday night telly jolliness, I realise that getting the small behemoth of an accompanying LP out to the general public actually means heaving on the wheel of publicity and putting my back into pushing the pyramid-stone roller sled of show-making once again. And, with a couple of splendid short film projects to publicise imminently, and a colourful new TV show to get stuck into any moment now, I am supposed to be cranking the engine of enthusiasm, to spark the lightbulb of brilliance once more.

Dear me.

All seems like such an effort, doesn’t it?

..The attitude of winners, I think you’ll agree.

Be a bit of a waste of a year if I gave up now though, I rather think. Because if I am a bit beat after 2014, it’s because I spent so much of it working behind the scenes on some mighty fun things to share in the new year. And secretly… I can’t wait for you to hear them.

So here is to a bright-eyed new year. May we rise to meet the miserable awfulness of life with the assurance of those who know how brilliant and rare it is to be alive in a dark ol’ universe. Not asleep.

Here’s hoping this hibernation is that of a caterpillar in a chrysalis.

Unless it’s actually cryogenic suspension. In which case, I am probably an unfathomably long way from home, a lot of time really is missing and you are already dead, mate. Sorry about that. Bit of a, y’know, mind bender.

Happy new year. You bright young thing. x