I am back from my self-imposed blogging and social media break. I’m not going to lie – it was glorious. Took me back to the 80s, when life was simpler and social media wasn’t even a thing. However, the 80s was also a time of beige food, luminous desserts and pop-tarts for breakfast. Therefore, I have no desire to stay in the 80s and I am quite relieved to be back in the modern-day with all of you lovely lot.
Hang on, how rude of me! I haven’t wished you a Happy New Year.
Happy New Year!
I really hope that you had a fantastic Christmas holiday. I managed to escape to slightly (very slightly) warmer climes, mixed with a famous actor and found myself being attacked by mobility scooters on a daily basis. But that is a whole other post and one that I will share with you another time.
It is the time of year when it is customary to make and share New Year’s resolutions. 10 years ago, this would have been me too. Now I am older and far wiser and I have come to realise that resolutions are a lot of old twaddle and just another exercise that we use to beat ourselves up with. In fact, I am a miserable git and hate New Year’s Eve with a passion. I am not sure where this stems from exactly. I suspect my equally moody Father might be partly to blame. My Dad hates Christmas Day and as such we have to keep him heavily sedated with red wine or face a toddler tantrum of epic proportions. This year we were away for Christmas and unable to hook him up to his intravenous drip of red wine. It started well but the post-Christmas lunch slump was too much for him to bear and he vanished for the rest of Christmas Day only emerging when dinner was served. I should have packed a travel pack of Cheddars, which might have helped ease my Dad’s pain. Where my Dad hates Christmas Day my Mum declares New Year’s Eve to be completely over-rated and a day that is destined to be a source of disappointment, that is unless you are married to George Clooney and sunning yourself in his private Italian villa with plenty of Nespresso on hand to ease the hangover the next day. Sadly, I am in no private villa and Mr Clooney isn’t serving me a Nespresso.
New Year’s Eve has long been a source of disappointment: full of anguish and an empty purse. As a 15/16 year-old I would pay a fortune to get into the local roller disco. This invariably involved me spending the evening skating round and round and round for the whole evening. Not because I was good (although, in my head I was the Torvill of the roller world, just one twizzle away from finding my Dean). No, the reason for spending the whole evening going round and round was that I was unable to stop. I would only be able to stop when my best friend would grab hold of me, pinning me to the barriers. Unfortunately, this depended on when she chose to come up from air from her latest boyfriend. Her coming up for air was something that did not happen frequently. Therefore New Year’s Eve would be me screeching round the rink as everyone else snogged. Story of my life.
Then there was the year (1998) I applied lots of make-up. Photographic evidence reveals that I looked like a man in drag. I watched Eastenders with my mates and we sobbed our eyes out as we watched Tiffany being mowed down by Frank Butcher. Nearly as horrific as the time Frank surprised Pat with just a dicky bow tie and a smile on his face. Anyway, we headed out into the night with ink-stained faces. We did not look pretty and you could have been forgiven for thinking we were going to a Halloween party not a New Year’s Eve one. That was a slightly depressing New Year’s Eve, and it only got worse when we found that we had to queue to get into our local Weatherspoons. Yes, Weatherspoons, home of the all day breakfast, old men permanently attached to the bar and sticky carpets. Then there was the time my university boyfriend persuaded me and a good friend to go to his in Birmingham. He regaled me with tales of glamour, city centre shenanigans and watching the sun come up as we partied all night in the VIP section of an amazing club. The reality was very different. That New Year’s Eve we found ourselves in a dodgy pub in the outer-reaches of Birmingham. In the car-park was a car with bricks for wheels, and a family of rats sheltering underneath it. There might have even been a three-legged dog sat in a stool at the end of the bar. I am making it sound worse than it was. The reality was that it was a pleasant pub but I hadn’t travelled from the depths of Essex and my friend hadn’t travelled from the wilds of Wales for a pleasant pub. We also had to pay a fortune to get into this pub. The buffet was rank and made us poorly. It was the buffet that made us poorly and not the snakebite and blacks that did it – honest.
Then there was the millennium that started off amazing and then ended with a crying boyfriend ruining it all. He wasn’t happy that I was having lots of fun with my friends and not hanging off his arm, simpering. I should have seen the signs then and I could have saved myself a further two years of heartache. To be honest it was a relief when I had children. No longer did I feel the pressure of doing something. Now I could go to bed at 8pm and blame the children for my pathetic lack of staying power. I also no longer make unachievable New Year’s resolutions. I have learnt from bitter experience to steer clear from them or at least make them so simple that anyone could complete them.
New Year’s resolutions of old
- Secure 3 book publishing deal
- Don’t be grumpy
- Stop nagging Mr C
- Win an Oscar
- Lose weight
The final one probably being the hardest! Now I keep them nice and simple.
My resolutions from last year
- Get up in morning
- Always wear a sports bra when going for a run
- Stop saying sorry at the end of every sentence
- Always remove make-up before bed (o.k. that one is a bit trickier)
- Get at least 3 hours of sleep (again slightly trickier but we can’t make it too easy)
- Chase your passions and do what you love.
Now I realise that the last one is a bit vague. However, it is an important one. Almost as important as wearing a sports bra when going for a run. Black eyes and saggy spaniels are not a good look. I digress – last year I decided that I needed write just because I love to and so I started this little blog. A year later, with some sprinkling of trolls, a few loyal readers and one award, I am still here (just). So perhaps sometimes setting a New Year’s resolution is a good thing. But only if we make them realistic! This year I have been thinking of my 2017 resolutions. I could vow to try and make my children eat more vegetables but remember what I said about keeping them achievable!
New Year’s resolutions 2017
- Train for the Moonwalk (this one scares me a lot but it is unavoidable, I am going to have to do it)
- Finish writing first three chapters of novel by August (again 3 chapters should be achievable). *Gulp*
- Buy some new mascara and stop using the one that is three years old before you give yourself conjunctivitis (yes, less of a resolution and more of a necessity. Whilst I am on the subject of mascara, does it ever run out or is it like Mary Poppins bag? It just keeps giving and I hate waste)
- Kindness. Ignore the spite, judgment and drama and embrace the kindness. Surround yourself with people you love, stay away from negativity and negative people
- Stop being scared of technology (I have no idea how to add things in my calendar on my phone, my email inbox is over-flowing, I have several unread text messages and WhatsApp likes to torture me. Facebook confuses me I need to stop being scared and get organised)
Yes, these are hardly life-changing but we shouldn’t be waiting for a new year if we really want to make a change. I like to think of these as my anti-new year resolutions. We can’t expect the dawn of a new year to suddenly change us all.
I have discovered that it might be a new year but it is still the same old me.
Additional note – after writing this post I took my children to school. I was feeling super smug as we arrived before the bell. We were early! A new me? An organised me?
It turns out that I was a whole two days early. Yep, same old me!
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