My most long-standing New Year’s tradition is to look back over what I’ve done during the past twelve months. Usually the good outweighs the bad. This year was so, so much better than last year; it wasn’t just about surviving, but about thriving: finding out, as Dolly Parton so wisely said, who I am, then doing it on purpose.
In 2018, I:
celebrated my lovely colleague Faye’s wedding, with other bookshop chums
attended a celebratory black tie dinner at the Oxford and Cambridge Club for the engagement of two more friends

found a new flat, with a new housemate
helped plan my cousin Sarah’s wedding, as her maid of honour, and in company with her brilliant bridesmaids
sang Irish songs, drunkenly, on a rooftop in the snow
received incredibly helpful mentoring and advice on my novel from the infinitely generous Antonia Honeywell
experienced a hen do in Brighton

sang at York Minster (and had some verse solos in the canticles, in the presence of Iestyn Davies. Swoon.)
participated in the Womens Prize Shadow Panel again
sang for, danced at, and generally revelled in Sarah’s wedding to the wonderful Gareth
hosted my mum in my new flat
travelled to Paris for an utterly unforgettable long weekend with my beloved friend Kendall

relatedly: eaten a meal in Paris that I will remember for the rest of my life—seven courses, four hours, wine
started a regular paid Sunday singing gig
visited Chatsworth, home of my employers, for the first time
caught up with my goddaughter Beatrice, and her lovely parents, Esther and Bojan, in Oxford
went to IKEA for the first time in my adult life
celebrated my twenty-sixth birthday with beloved friends and so much sushi I could barely stand afterwards

threw a housewarming party in the new flat, with my excellent housemate Joe
sang at St Paul’s with old college chums, then immediately afterwards attended the reception for Kerry and Alvina’s wedding
hosted my little brother Nick and his brilliant girlfriend Emma on their London holiday
ticked another cathedral (Southwark) off my list of Places I’ve Sung In
heard Susan Graham, live
drank in the private pub for Yeomen Warders of the Tower of London
took myself on my first solo holiday, to Brussels, where I survived on goat’s cheese, baguette, chocolate caramel spread, and ratatouille

…and where I also wrote thousands of words’ worth of my book
chatted to an agent about said book, and promised to send a draft when finished
accidentally insulted Sebastian Faulks
flew home to visit my family, during which time we picked apples, drank coffee (and a lot of wine), strolled in downtown Charlottesville, basked in late autumn sunlight, drove up into the mountains. I also brunched joyfully at Helen and Charlie’s wedding reception, and wrote more thousands of words
attended the Young Writer of the Year Award announcement, along with lots of blogging friends (and where I met the incomparable Sarah Moss)
cooked a Thanksgiving meal for some American (and non-American!) friends
got a sparkly gel pedicure because why not
sang in four Christmas concerts
re-permed my hair, also because why not
celebrated Christmas at Canterbury Cathedral, thanks to the kind hospitality of Sarah and Gareth

finished off the New Year with gigs at Westminster Abbey and St Paul’s
read exactly 200 books