Happy Old Year!

So far 2013 has been less peachy, more phlegmy (bear with me).  Whilst only a couple of weeks in, I’ve spent the past 15 days swigging cough medicine from the gooey bottle my pathetic flu weary hand is stuck to.  I, as much as anyone, was full of New Year promise and readily anticipated the wave of fairy godmother’s wand on the strike of 12, instantly making 2013 better.  I looked down expecting my dance sore feet to be cradled in diamond slippers.  No such luck.  I had a sneaky grope of my Christmas pud clad thighs and nope, they were still gently swathed in a festive season’s worth of over indulging.  I checked my phone, bracing myself for the avalanche of life changing opportunities the world was handing to me on a 24 carat gold plate.  Nada.  Not a sausage.  Alas, I coughed, wretched and a little bit of champagne came out.  But it got me to thinking; I was concentrating so hard on 2013 and all its supposed New Year possibilities, that I was leaving 2012 in my wake without as much as a cursory glance.  So instead, I stopped, took a swig of Covonia and remembered.  As my spectacular Christmas Cough 2012 was still clinging on, I realised a crossover was taking place.  I couldn’t leave everything from last year behind in favour of a brand new shiny one and when I thought about it, I didn’t want to.  2012 was immense and there’s nothing like some memories to cheer a cough weary body.  So rather than solely focusing forward at what I hoped this year will bring, I took a moment to look back.


I flew

Yes, I’ve flown before but ne’er before have I done so without sweating, clenching and acquiring charming doses of aviation induced Tourette’s.  “WHAT’S THAT NOISE?  WHAT THE !@# DOES THAT NOISE MEAN?  THAT BASTARD NOISE!  ARE YOU DEAF YOU KNOBBER?  OH MY CHRIST I AM SWEATING, JOHN* I’M SWEATING”.  This time last year I got on a plane, I relaxed, unclenched and enjoyed the flight.  Or as much as you can enjoy being tens of thousands of feet in the air in a big metal box from which there is no escape.


*John would be his dad. I am confident a sweary ‘sweater’ was just the kind of girl he’d hoped for for his son.


I flew.  Part 2.

The nest that is.  I finally hauled my molly coddled ass from the sanctuary of my childhood home where bedroom walls were pink, company was female and number of clothes not judged.  Suddenly, none of the former was true as I moved in with a boy…into his stunning apartment where walls are exposed brick, company is the best and I’m working on the clothes.  Fair trade.


11 hours.

See the sun come up at a party?  Yeah I did!  Party at 7pm, home at 6am.  And for a girl who is a big fan of sleep and all associated paraphernalia, this is new.  For someone who celebrates a good night out with the, ‘hair up, bra off, contacts out, tea, toast, hot water bottle, bed’ routine, this is big.  And not only did I partake; I initiated.  Cocktails to celebrate the sun coming up?  Let’s.


Lost a job, got a job, got a better one.

Around this time last year I was on holiday when I got a text informing me that the company I worked for had royally gone tits up.  I, along with 35 others had been given the quick heave ho in order to try and save a sinking ship.  Happy holiday!  Luckily our Venice hotel only had Italian speaking television channels so I was saved from the media telling me I needn’t even entertain the idea of ever being employed again.  That was a treat waiting for me when I got home.  Cutting a long, tedious and tear fuelled story short, I posted my CV online; I got an interview and was lucky enough to get a job.  About a month ago I got a promotion.  Well done 2012.


Best. Holiday. Ever.

I have always wanted to go to Morocco and last year, we grabbed the camel by the hump and did it.  It was incredible, undoubtedly my favourite holiday in the history of me and I could bang on about it all day.  Which I did, and you can read about it here.



Last year was the year of the wedding.  I put on my prettiest frocks, entwined flowers, butterflies and bows in my hair and danced to Mr Brightside.  Four times over.  We saw all of our best friends and bestest family get married.  Pretty huge.


There were more than a few momentous occasions in 2012.  There were the big things: being made redundant, getting a new job, leaving home and living with him.  And the really big things: cooking my first ever roast chicken, becoming the proud owner of Vivienne Westwood pirate boots and spending two days in the foetal position after the worst tequila-fuelled hangover of my life.  I quadrupled the number of weddings I’d ever been to; I made amazing friends and I lost others.  I sang (and most impressively, rapped) along to Plan B at Sherwood Forest in the pissing down rain.  I took him to Bestival where our relationship changed forever because weeing in a cup does that to a couple.  Yeah there were the shitty moments, but who wants to remember those?  I’m focusing on the best of the last twelve before I fling myself head first into the new one.  Why would I ever want to forget creating a pubic stencil for my (all intents and purposes) brother in law.


You see?  Momentous.




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