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 2014, I have:
recorded a CD with Exeter College Choir
written my first review for Quadrapheme Magazine
danced at Burns Night
planned an alumni event at Freshfields on my own
met J.K. Rowling, and talked to her about her shoes
staffed Founder’s Day (hungover and on four hours of sleep)
endured sixteen consecutive days of fatigue, alcohol, singing, and jet lag
sung at the National Cathedral
made friends at a gay bar called Freddie’s in Crystal City, in the company of my darlings Theresa McCario, Jonathan Giles, Chelsea Meynig, and Ella Kirsh, and new darling Michael Divino
attended a keg party
found emergency medical care in lower Manhattan
skipped May morning for the first time
met A.S. Byatt
shaken the hand of the Queen of Spain
gone drinking with a platoon of Marines
become poetry editor at Quadrapheme Magazine
performed the second most ludicrous gig of my singing life so far
purchased an ostrich feather wrap and a tiara
sung my final evensong at Exeter College naked (except for the cassock)
attended a white tie ball
danced around a bonfire with Will Michaelmas Watt
written my first lesson plan
marked someone else’s coursework for the first time
adopted winged eyeliner
started a novel
milked a cow
become managing editor at Quadrapheme Magazine
composed precisely forty job applications and cover letters (I’ve just counted)
moved house
gotten my first adult full-time job
learned how to use Twitter properly
vetted, purchased, installed and learned to use a new database
had a poem accepted at Boston Poetry
strategized, recruited for, and implemented a new after-school programme
stuffed 2,705 individual pieces of paper into ~540 envelopes
seen the Late Turner exhibit at Tate Britain
sung harmony with my little brother on guitar
read 102 books
I don’t believe in predicting the future, either: not five years into the future, not one year, not even six months. Experience has taught me that such predictions take a particular delight in confounding you. But I can say that I fully expect 2015 to fill the shoes of its predecessor.
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