Stay on the sofa this Boxing Day, before the rush of life returns

‘And rest!” Those are the only words I want to hear today. Now our secular society has pretty much scrubbed the notion that there should be one day spent resting every seven, just one calendar date puts relaxation as the central aim: Boxing Day.

Every other contender involves too much prep or people pleasing, especially if you’re a parent, or have elderly relatives to please. I’m always wrapping presents into the small hours of Christmas Day and then rise to face the chores of family lunch, a walk and intensely competitive card games.

Easter also involves military levels of preparation, as does the whole New Year shebang. But blessed Boxing Day can be spent necking sherry and watching comfort TV in pyjamas (I recommend John Lewis’s borg-fleece ones that turn you into a giant soft toy).

Not everyone agrees, of course. There’s been a noticeable trend in recent years for people to be infuriatingly energetic on Boxing Day. My younger brother will doubtless track down freezing water today, so he be more like Wim Hof – the “Iceman”, who teaches people his slowing-heartbeat method for surviving extremely cold temperatures unclad – and turn his extremities blue in the name of supposed fun.

Now, no one likes a spot of wild swimming (what we once called “swimming”) more than me, but the evangelical festive freezetheir-knackers-off brigade feel too hair-shirty to me. As do those who plan to spend the day completing a half Iron Man challenge. Stop already, and have a third helping of trifle.

Of course, there always was a subset of people who spent Boxing Day being terrifyingly energetic. Most notably, the equine crew who like nothing more than rising at 5am with a stonking hangover, plaiting their manes before doing their horse’s, then risking life and limb over giant hedges “in pursuit of the uneatable”.

Why? Because it’s all about a group of horseobsessed hearties with constitutions like nuclearpowered radiators showing Hof devotees you don’t need “breathing techniques” to survive falls into sub-zero ditchwater. You could argue the same about football fanatics, who loyally stand on sleet-blasted football terraces for hours to watch their heroes being trounced by international playboys funded by a US or Emirati billionaire.

Good for all of them – they get a pass. They are loyal to their own long-cherished traditions. But can’t the swimmers, runners and middle-aged men in Lycra stand down for a day? Can’t they submit to the siren lure of the sofa, Call the Midwife and eating brandy cream straight from the tub? What about setting out a huge jigsaw: the surest way to slow down time and your pulse without even trying?

After all, the very history of Boxing Day is rooted in a civilised instruction for the population to be at ease; a time when servants finally got a day off, tradesmen could stop working and collect bonuses, while the poor were given alms.

It’s worth remembering our US cousins don’t have this tradition because they’re descended from a bunch of joyless Puritans who don’t believe in self-indulgence. There’s certainly nothing in the Boxing Day small print about torturing yourself with extreme sports challenges – unless you enjoy the 100-metre sprint at the sales.

Go on, give yourself the most luxurious gift known to humankind: doing nothing.