Winter blues and a world gone mad? Soak on a sunbed, watch The Crown, and swallow a healthy dose of denial

Now is the winter of our discontent/Made glorious summer by this sun of York. As ever, Shakespeare foresaw it all. The only compelling thing to have happened this month has come from our son of York, Prince Andrew, and his sweat-free visit to Pizza Express, but my amusement at his unbecoming answers wore off after the 20th cringe.

Like the rest of us, I’m on a seasonal downer because autumn decided not to show up this year. We’ve gone from midsummer to Dickensian freeze. Without the cushion of seasonal adjustment, everyone I know has nosedived disastrously into seasonal depression. The Twitterati, naturally, responded with a ghastly supply of inspirational quotes about “the power of acceptance” and “living in the moment” which is insufferable nonsense. My message is simple and far more useful. Forget acceptance, denial is the only approach to life.

The great author and god-botherer C S Lewis (whom I loved from the age of six when I heard we shared a delight in fabulous wardrobes) said that denial was “the shock absorber for the soul”. He understood that it protects us until we can cope with reality; that denial is your imagination’s way of giving you joy even in the most despairing of times. So, because I’m in such a good and a sharing person, consider this — my manifesto for denial — as your best chance of avoiding existential horror this winter.

Denial phase one starts at home, getting into an escapist frame of mind with Netflix’s The Crown. Binge watch it and pretend you are the heavenly Princess Margaret. It’s all the more delectable now you’re played by Helena Bonham Carter. The real frisson comes when ordering a takeaway in her voice.

For the second stage, get to the nearest salon and book an inadvisedly long session on the sunbed. Pretend you’re on a beach of your choice and feel deservedly smug. This is infinitely cheaper and the risk of permanent skin damage is at least as high. Now that your skin is taken care of, invest in a wardrobe at least a size too small for you. Try to get into the clothes, and claim they’re just terribly made. You will easily fool yourself and, if not, it’s great motivation to take advantage of that dusty, unused gym contract you signed in January.

Now that you’re almost entirely deluded, it’s time to excel at an imaginary hobby. You are extraordinarily talented at this pastime. You don’t even need to do it. You can just sit at home with a bottle of wine and tell the dog about your latest triumphs. Mine is figure skating, and I’m working my way up to my quadruple axel. It’s immaculate when nobody’s watching.

The final stage is the most important by far. Stop talking about the world as it is and start pretending it’s how you wish it could be. If your friends want to discuss politics or religion, don’t listen to anything you disagree with or accept any home truths. Problems disappear entirely if you just redefine your narrative. Venice sinking? What charming boating weather! Antibiotic resistance? How lovely for the bacterial community. Plummeting insect populations? Well, I couldn’t stand them in the first place.

And there you have it. Welcome to the world of insulated bliss, brought to you by the power of your own mind. Denial may not provide the foundations for a better future, but it certainly makes for a better now. And isn’t that what we’re all about these days? I think I feel an inspirational tweet coming on after all.

Goya’s scary dog? I’ve been sold a pup

Madrid’s Prado museum celebrated its 200th birthday this week . As the museum gets older it is struggling to cope with the increasing number of visitors (nearly three million last year).

It’s not just the breathtaking works of art on show — the gallery’s popularity is also due to it having none of the soullessness of the Louvre.

My passion for the place is due to the incomparable Goya and his black paintings. Sure they are frightening (some might say depressing) but they speak more articulately about the human condition, especially our capacity for hopelessness and despair, than anything else ever made. Or so I thought. Last week I was on the podcast My Favourite Work Of Art with the savvy Dr Laura-Jane Foley who informed me that my favourite work from the series, The Dog, was almost certainly not produced by Goya — it’s a fake.

I was crushed. It’s worth tuning in to hear me squirm and struggle to find a coherent response. I told her that I loved the work anyway so it didn’t matter who painted it.

This felt true at the time but I’m not so sure now. I guess I’ll have to go to Madrid and find out.

* I am a shameless fan of Robbie Williams. I am not entirely confident that I could acquaint myself with anybody who doesn’t like him. I wangled my way into a private playing of his festive album, The Christmas Present, which comes out today. It’s genuinely magical. It has the melodic flair of his earlier albums, the delight of the season with none of the typical Christmas rubbish. It’s going to be my stocking-filler gift to all my friends.