We all have great ideas of how to liven up January, but it’s time to admit when it’s wishful thinking.

YOU know how some people suffer from FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out)? Well, I’ve the opposite affliction, FOGO (Fear of Going Out).It’s a thing, I swear. It kicks in around 6.45pm most evenings when the thought of leaving my house becomes so unappealing that it rarely happens. 

I was reminded of it this week, when in a brief ‘let’s liven up my life this January’ moment, I looked up various evening classes that were enrolling in the area. For ages I’ve had a mind to take up a refresher Irish course. Without sounding like an absolute dose I love Irish and regret that despite having had brilliant teachers, I’ve only got a rudimentary grasp of the language and I want to do something about it. 

Equally, I’d love to brush up my French which at one point was fluent and is now as brutal as the eponymous Emily in Paris. Quelle horreur! It also crossed my mind to have a go at tin whistle classes as my smallie is learning it in school and hearing her practice brought on a dose of nostalgia. But when the dog started losing his mind and barking along to Óró ‘Sé do bheatha ‘bhaile, I thought better of it. 

Anyway, it was all going well until I spotted that the evening classes didn’t start until 7pm (the clue is in the name I suppose), and weren’t over until 9pm. That would mean I wouldn’t be home until after 9.30pm and by the time I followed my crucial five-step plan to ensure I get at least some sleep (herbal tea, yoga breathing, turning around three times, touching the ground and walking backwards towards the bedroom, with one eye closed while chanting) it would be at least 10pm.
It was never going to work, I realised. Maybe next year. 

I’ve also a bit of residual trauma from past evening class experience. Years back, I’m thinking at least 20 years now, I signed up for an aromatherapy course in Cork city. I’ve no idea why, but it was clearly something I was interested at the time (and FOGO hadn’t hit). 

Week one went grand, everyone was really friendly and I even entertained thoughts of changing career and becoming an aromatherapist. Week two was a different story. Mid-way through, the instructor asked us to turn to the person on our right and put into practice some of the basic massage skills she had demonstrated. I don’t know why this came as such a shock to me, given the nature of what we were learning about but massaging the shoulders of the woman next to me, as nice as she seemed, wasn’t anything I was too keen on, nor was getting massaged by the person next to me. I contemplated going to the loo and escaping out a window, but I stuck it out and when it was over, I slithered away as fast as I could, never to return. Funnily enough, I’ve stuck to facials on spa weekends ever since. 

So with evening classes off the list of things to lighten up January, I turned to what everyone else seems to be doing right now: booking the summer holiday. Surprise, surprise, I have some issues with holidays too, mainly that my tastes don’t match my budget. In fact they’re in entirely different time zones. I peaked too soon in my younger years and was lucky enough to holiday in some gorgeous destinations and lay my head on some premium pillows, and now nothing really compares. 

Evening classes are a great idea, in theory at least

I drive my family berserk when we arrive in a hotel or any sort of accommodation. I’m like a SWAT team: I fling open the door, and roar ‘no one move’, as I dive towards the beds and toss away those velvet throws and cushions which I think should be outlawed. 

‘Don’t touch anything,’ I’ll continue, ‘a--nd don’t put anything on the ground either.’ I once read that keeping your baggage off the ground is a good deterrent to bugs and germs of any kind. Fair enough, the article might have been about holidaying in the Australian outback, but you can’t be too careful. 

Unless it’s some place like the Cashel Palace (never been, a girl can dream though) I don’t encourage unpacking either and depending on where we are, I might also try to discourage use of the pool (I once had the misfortune of seeing a toddler’s turd float past me in a hotel pool, which is as unforgettable as it sounds). You might say I’m not the most easygoing of holiday makers, and you’d be right, but at least you won’t be coming home with a verruca if you travel with me. 

Anyway the search to get something in the diary continues. Right now I’m veering towards a staycation, mainly because I can bring my own pillow. Funnily enough my Google searches for ‘luxury Irish accommodation with no velvet throws for less than €600 a night pps without breakfast or toddler turds in the pool’ isn’t throwing up much. I’ve time on my side yet.

A parting thought for the evening classes: would an Irish group come around to my place I wonder? I’d provide the cupán tae! And could we meet in the mornings instead? And maybe every second week in case I haven’t slept well the night before? Any takers?