Depression, impoverishment, darkness, cold. What's not to love about January?

A resonant theme within the Buddhist religion is that of "acceptance". "I accept that my skid-mark of an ex has taken all my money," one might chant inwardly, feeling lighter and at one with the bubbling of the cosmos. Or, "I accept that, post-40, my tits no longer resemble alert terriers hearing the rustle of the biscuit tin." Try it for yourself. Accepting that life is often awful – in a tangerine-robed omming-and-nomming manner – will set you free. Much more so than the jelly-elbowed Christian approach to life's awfulness – namely, chucking around the idea of "forgiveness" like restorative fairy-dust, with a vague hope that it's something Jesus might have done.

"I forgive you, old friend," one might say, "for cutting me from your wedding invite list. You clearly have your reason, albeit spineless." Deep down, despite the forgiveness, one will probably still fantasise about letting off a fire hydrant in the groom's face. Acceptance is where it's at. And I implore you to accept, with every bodily fibre, the greatest threat to the British psyche right now: winter.

Are your feet icy cold despite you wearing thick socks and slippers? Is your boiler revealing itself to be on its last legs? Did you go to work in dank darkness and return in the very same dank darkness? Are you fatter than you were in October and have no one to blame but yourself and a tub of Lindt milk-chocolate reindeers? Has a curious despondency over the point of human existence enveloped your soul? Well, this is what January in Great Britain feels like. The sooner you accept it the better.

"I accept the next three months of coldness, enforced personal austerity and endless soup," one should whisper to oneself. "I accept the bedraggled garden and the weekend-long cabin fever. I accept that there is no brightness or sparkle on the near horizon – no bonfire parties, no fancy-dress parties, no gift-giving, no barbecues, no tinsel, no joie de vivre – and that we Brits are merely clinging to a cold rock in the North Sea, with tepid hope of a warmish spring."

One could organise, if one really wanted, a "Whoop! It's Januarymas!" party, with all the cheering frivolity of Halloween or Guy Fawkes Night, but then no one would come because it's January. Or they would come armed with a box of peppermint teapigs because they were doing "Dry January" and, seriously, you don't need these people in your house.

This isn't to say that accepting winter as an arduous, necessary season – the rough to complement the relative smooth of summer – is not difficult. Some Brits have so much trouble accepting the January-to-early-April period that they uproot permanently to the Costa Blanca. No doubt winter in these places is more agreeable, but the downside must be the punishing schedule of watching Sky News round the clock, and tweeting the channel with your opinions on the UK's awful decline.

Dubai is also a nice place to live at this time of year – or any time, for that matter – particularly if you're a Brit on the run from your conscience, ex-partner, terrible reputation, or pesky child-maintenance claims. But fleeing Britain in winter is cheating, I say. Better to accept it. Lie back and take it you must.

I have not always been so zen. One winter, a couple of years ago, I was so determined to reject the seasonal apathy and hibernation that I ploughed on regardless in a thoroughly springtime mindset. I booked tables in restaurants. I eschewed sofa-blankets and box sets, and I planned social "catch-ups" followed by bracing walks home through the park. This is inadvisable.

Almost all dinners that are eaten out of the house in January, I now realise, are consumed in a Mary Celeste ambience accompanied by the icy blast of the front door opening, and served by staff who are severely questioning their bright idea to waste a few youthful years in northern Europe. The park is not pretty. It is full of JCBs carrying out pre-summer maintenance, and the ducks have eaten so much marzipan- covered fruitcake that they flap about showing symptoms of type 2 diabetes.

The park café has a Brechtian atmosphere, is open for only two hours daily, and is used mainly by (a) flu-ridden dog walkers clutching plastic beakers of PG Tips, and (b) parents of toddlers so exasperated by winter captivity that leaving the house to watch the JCBs is preferable. You leave home cold and you come home damp. Your big toe pokes through a hole in your 80-denier tights and stops bloodflow to your lower leg.

Give up, I say. Accept winter. Stay indoors and make yourself a stew. Or even better, dust off the slow-cooker and make a stew. It'll be the exact same stew as on a hob, but it'll kill six or seven hours and that's useful because it's nine weeks until spring officially begins. Accept it – we have all time in the world.

@gracedent