# Sunshine’s back, the days are getting longer – and doesn’t everything look awful?

By 

I rarely have any wisdom to impart, but at this time of year I find myself itching to share one of the few snippets I have gleaned in my 50 years. So here goes.

Have you found in recent days that everyone (in the northern hemisphere, anyway) seems stoked about spring – skittles and beer, carpets of crocuses, the prospect of sitting outside without having your face resurfaced by sleet – but you are not quite feeling it? Have any nascent joys of the changing seasons been crushed by a glimpse of yourself in a mirror, replaced by wondering how you got so dull and lumpy? Has your home become, seemingly overnight, a sticky nest of squalor – toothpaste dribbles on the mirror, mildewed grouting, sofa stains, dust (God, the dust)? Does nothing please you?

## UGH week

If so, don’t panic. It’s not existential despair (legal clarification: in March 2025, I can’t guarantee that). You are experiencing what I call “UGH week”.

UGH week is the point at which there is suddenly enough daylight to realise just how awful everything looks. The people who dwelt in darkness – that’s us, since November – have seen a great light and what it reveals is biblically terrible.

It happens to me every year: I wake one March morning, go into the bathroom and recoil at the sight of Brian Cox (not the science one) staring back peevishly. Scratching my scaly, grey legs – irritated by five months of  – creates a blizzard of dry skin, turning the bathroom (suddenly a biohazard zone of hair nests, muddy footprints and puddles of mystery ooze) into a repulsive snowdome.

Attempting to dress, I am disheartened by everything in my giant, teetering clothes heap being stained, moth-eaten, hideous or all three. Making breakfast, I realise that the kitchen – my favourite place – has become a crime scene of sauce spatters and greasy fingerprints; a mould-coated satsuma long forgotten in the fruit bowl seems to have become sentient. Starting work, the harsh sun hits my screen, revealing a thick, gross layer of my own skin cells. Everything is dispiriting and disgusting.

But it’s OK: it’s really just a trick of the light. Banish your seasonal shame – we needed that cosy layer of filth to survive the winter! – but don’t replace it with rubber gloves, or those acid-filled socks that . I know spring cleaning and grooming are traditional at this juncture, but who, this year, has the energy? With that in mind, here are five slacker’s strategies that have helped me survive decades of UGH weeks.

## Fix one thing

Pick a battle, but make sure it’s small, satisfying and, crucially, self-contained; there is a real risk that making one thing better could deepen your disgust at everything else. Moisturise your elbows, maybe, or rationalise your condiments. This year, I tackled the neglected house plants, hanging on to life by their root hairs. Everyone got a soak and a feed, the beyond-hope were quietly composted and I feel much better.

## Become more bear

I recently watched footage of a grizzly bear, Boo, , looking as groggy and horrified by the harsh spring light as me. “He’s feeling it,” as his caregiver said.  teaches us, in a few short months Boo will be glossy, plump and energised without resorting to “Hiit” or “”. (Plus, does Boo care what state he leaves his den in? He does not.) Trust the process. And internalise ursine beauty norms.

## £1 bunches of daffodils

Serendipitously, UGH week coincides with peak £1 daff time. There is no sordid corner that can’t be improved by the cheery sunshine of daffs. No vase? No problem: put them in jam jars – it’s charmingly bohemian. Generally, the word “bohemian” is a helpful mantra in UGH week; remind yourself that bleach is bourgeois.

## Go outside … and stay there

If you never see your home, or your face, in daylight, all your UGH week problems vanish. Sit on a cafe terrace or a park bench until sunset and enjoy feeling something other than sleet on your skin.

## Do nothing

If you can hold your nerve for another few days, you will be off the hook entirely for ages: .

Emma Beddington is a Guardian columnist
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