I have just posted my latest Families NW Magazine Mummy on the Edge column. On the first day of the cover date. Well done me. Start as you mean to go on etc. etc. Blah blah blah.
Last year was good, in many ways. It is important to acknowlege the fruits of one's thingy. So, here goes my attempt:
I have kept my business afloat singlehandedly through economically bleak times and taught LOADS of people to do the special thing (that I'm not going to publicise in this column because this is not about that) and thus brought fun and laughter to many, who sent me lovely letters and emails and cards, keeping my heart afloat at the same time.
It was also the year that I ceased to refer to Mini-Me's father as Voldemort (-don't worry, I never did it in front of her and I never referred to his family as Deatheaters, either; they are actually very nice, sane people-) and managed to find the constitution to sustain a pseudo-friendly conversation with him over long-distance telephone from time to time. This is no mean feat considering the dramatic/ borderline cinematic nature of our separation and subsequent divorce.
In 2011, I left the country 4 times; 3 of those to places I had never previously visited. Blimey. I forgot about that. And I had a really good time, enjoying the consistent, yet sadly temporary, mutual beguilement of an intelligent adult that made me laugh and taught me lots.
In all, I have learned that my capacity for understanding, forgiveness and compassion to those what done me wrong knows no bounds. Now I am learning to extend those courtesies to myself.
AND WRITE A BLOODY BOOK!!!!
In homage to Brigitte Jones (and in no way by result of petty and misplaced jealousy of Helen Fielding given that the THIRD movie is coming out this year) I'm going to review my year thus:
Millilitres of hopeless tears cried to no end:
About 537ml or enough to win a Big Brother task singlehandedly.
Number of times refrained from shouting at Mini-Me to be quiet and stop singing so loudly and cheerfully:
Actually impossible to count.
Glasses of rum and cherry coke drunk by me during last night's private New Year's Eve party in my home with Mini-Me:
Number of times Mini-Me repeated how she couldn't believe and was so excited that it would soon be TWO THOUSAND AND TWELVE:
Number of times I refrained from telling her in response, "Did you know there are some cultures and belief systems that support the theory that the world is actually due to END in 2012?":
Individual peices of detritus and crap I have seen over the course of the year strewn about my gardens and their entrances that can be directly and unwrongfully (woo hoo just made up a cool word!) attributed to my neighbour:
Number of times I have deleted the word "crap" when writing my Mummy on the Edge column:
At least 24
Hours wasted googling "writing a novel" and its many tributaries and estuaries on the interweb.
Enough to have actually written AT LEAST half of it.
Number of times I have had to press the "forgotten password" button on websites (including this one) and had to make another one up only to forget it again.
Number of times I have requested a new pin to be sent to me for a credit/ debit card having forgotten it.
Number of mouldy courgettes thrown away:
Hours wasted watching The only way is Chelsea or similar:
Number of witty and intelligent blog posts I have written in my head in the shower but not on here:
Number of times I declined to do something by actually saying "No" last week:
3. And it felt bloody good.
Number of lovely people I personally know all over the world who are kind and good and wish the best for their friends: