1st January 2012
Blimey! Vooom, there goes another year.
I wasn’t in London. I was watching ‘Stephen Fry’s 100 Best Gadgets’ and being a thoroughly miserable git. I wasn’t drunk, or stoned, or having raunchy debauched sex. In fact, for such a memorable evening — the beginning of the year when it all ends (the Mayan apocalypse approaches woe, woe and thrice woe!) — I wasn’t being memorable at all. I was blandly boring.
Now, of course, I wish I’d taken all my clothes off and run around the fountains in Trafalgar Square stoned out of my gourd. Now, I wish I’d been fucked silly and come just on the first strike of Big Ben, it’s bell syncing with my scream of joy. Meh. Shoulda-coulda-woulda. No one’s fault but my own.
2011 wasn’t a complete write off. I achieved a few bits and bobs:
I wrote a bit, though not enough — when is it ever enough?
The band is now a complete five piece, which is great, and we sound really good… but is it what I want? The jury is still out on that.
I put together a book, though I can’t face reading it in case the typos are plentiful enough to paper my room. With an eBook you can make changes, with print you’re fucked. A truism to note well, my beloved readers. [snort]
B and I moved from the country back to the town, and the jury is out on that, too.
What I didn’t do was finish any fiction of length. Maybe it’s time to face up to the fact I’m not a novelist. Hmm. Why is that so damn hard? I know I’m English and I’ll never be French, or German, or Flemish. So why is it so difficult to admit I write short fiction but not long? Dunno. Weird, eh?
This year, this 2012, I have a lot I want to do. However, I’m not going to make a list of resolutions as I’ve learnt they are pointless. Pointless, do you hear!
Thus endeth this, the entry for 1st January 2012.