I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions. I don’t believe in the New Year starting in January, either; for me it has always started with a new academic year, in the autumn, and all of that post-Christmas guilt stuff is just an excuse for self-flagellation and meanness. What I do for New Year’s, instead, is to list what I’ve done over the past year. That seems more likely to produce, on the whole, happiness. And even bad memories are worth more than half-assed, panic-induced vows to improve my life.
So, in 2013, I have:
climbed a fell
taken a Virgin train first class, for free (!)
given a speech at Burns Night
done four live radio broadcasts from Manchester, over a week during which, apart from the broadcasts, I did nothing except revise medieval dream poetry and watch baking shows with the Duchess
learned to lay a fire
gotten naked–for the children (and it’s not often you hear someone say that) (aka participated in the naked calendar produced by ExVac, Exeter College’s own charity which takes disadvantaged children for a week’s holiday in the spring vac)
woken up at 5:30 a.m. for May morning
drunk red wine in a mortarboard
This happened.
contemplated suicide
revised for Finals
worn a corset in public
commissioned a dress
sat Finals
been trashed
graduated from university
applied to do postgraduate work, and been rejected, and been devastated about that, and then been kind of okay with it
swum naked in the Adriatic
danced in an Italian bar until two in the morning
sung Bruckner motets for bewildered but enthusiastic Italians, also at two in the morning
read seventy-nine books (beginning to end)
bought twenty-three secondhand books
met Philip Pullman, and chatted about The Faerie Queene with him
watched all three series of Game of Thrones
moved house
become identifiable by sight at Gloucester Green book stall
walked on the North York Moors
become unwittingly hooked on The Great British Bake Off (shoot shag marry: shoot Mel and Sue, shag Paul, marry Mary. Obviously.)
written eighteen different cover letters for job applications
interned in London, twice
joined Pottermore, and done absolutely nothing on it
discovered that the five-year plan I thought I had isn’t actually the five-year plan I want, and changed it accordingly
laughed so hard I spat water all over the kitchen
cried so hard I couldn’t see the next day
landed a job
gone out every night in a week
…and they all had red eye, The End
created a graph in Microsoft Excel
started to write poetry again, and submit it
won a mention in the Southwest Review’s poetry competition
cooked a Christmas dinner
flown home for the first time in a year
bought alcohol without being carded (in the States, no less)
started to realize that you can be happy and uncertain at the same time.
skeptical amiability
Happy New Year’s, you guys. I hope that Santa brought you everything you asked for, that your New Year’s Eve is safe if not sober, and that the coming twelvemonth (a word that needs bringing back) is good to you!
Happy New Year from (most of) L’Auberge Anglaise! (missing Darcy and Half Pint, who’s taking the picture)
