NEW YEAR, eh? It’s a new year. Well, well, well … where did the old one go, I ask you? Where did it go?
During this particular time of the festive season – aka ‘when it’s nearly all over’ – I like to sit back, sip brandy in front of my log fire, while stroking my beard and reflecting over the past 12 months. Of course, I don’t have a beard because I am a lady – but if I had one, I would be stroking it in a very reflective manner.
During this joyous period of saying adieu to the old and bonjour to the new, I have decided to cast my mind back over a year’s worth of musings on these here pages.
January saw me lamenting the end of the Christmas period. In a diary entry dated 1 January 2009, I wrote: “This is a particularly difficult time of year for a presents whore like myself. The build-up to Christmas is so extensive that I have been left feeling utterly despondent. I am acutely aware that I won’t be getting any presents for an age now. I really do feel that the powers that be should have organised things a bit better when they were deciding on the whens and wheres of the festivities.
Clearly, no-one gave a blind bit of thought to the thoroughly shiteous months of January, February, March, or indeed any month that my birthday doesn’t fall in.”
So true, so true – and of course, I still stand by these words.
A diary entry dated 13 February saw me question my true origins: “Mother and father are currently not speaking, which is wonderful. Something about wellies but, to be honest, I couldn’t be sure because I wasn’t really listening. Ever since I dreamt I was adopted, I’ve been trying to distance myself from my family for fear it might be true. No-one has actually confirmed or denied my suspicions, so I am obviously slightly apprehensive about the fact that I may or may not be an unwanted child á la Whitney in Eastenders.”
Poor me … that was moving, genuinely moving, and yes, I still suspect I am adopted.
Then came March, the month of the lambs … or is that April? Anyway, in a diary entry dated 20 March, I was inspired to shun negativity: “I am shunning negativity in all forms and am remaining positive. I’ve been inspired after re-reading two pages of The Secret. Negativity has no place in my life. None. I am attracting positivity into my life through the magnetic power of my mind. So far, I’ve attracted a yellow Snack bar and a ginseng multivitamin tablet. It must be working a treat; both those things are very positive.”
Wow … I think you will all agree, that was quite inspirational.
April, my birthday month (21 April, in case you have forgotten and want to put it into your own diaries) saw me reflect on the past 26 years: “Years 2-3: I believe I was well into teething at this stage, but if memory serves me correctly, and it always does, I was quite the angel. Then something happened: it came with a rocking horse, it was my sister. Yes. To this day I can’t speak about it without feeling slightly resentful. I remember it very clearly. If I could have spoken coherently, I would have said “Yo parentoes, what the f**k is going on here? Put that bitch down and give me a cuddle now.”
Obviously I’m carrying a lot of pain with me.
During the month of May it seems I spotted my naked neighbour cavorting in his bathroom: “All of a sudden, nearly naked neighbour became completely naked neighbour because he whipped off his pantaloons right in front of our very eyes and yes, we could see his bum-bum.”
Shockingly gratuitous, I think you will agree. (Yes it is; get on with it – Ed.)
June, the month of the local elections, saw me attempt to rally to the troops. Clearly I wanted to encourage a new, sexier batch of potential councillors to take up the political mantle. No offence to the current batch, of course: “We need a few people in there who are dynamic, colourful, clever, clued-in and, most importantly, we need a few lookers. I don’t see why politics can’t be fun. I don’t see why it has to be an old boys’ club.”
Honestly, I should really look into becoming some sort of life coach. My grandmother tried to pimp me out during the seventh month of the year – July, that is. Shocked I was, obviously: “‘Not one of ye has any intention of getting married I’ve noticed,’ she said.
She then proceeded to inform me that, as far as she was concerned, she would probably be dead before one of her granddaughters ever gets married because it was taking us all so long.” During the month of August, I joined a gym. This entry, dated 21 August, documents the highs and lows of my assessment: “The only time I couldn’t speak was when he told me to get on the treadmill, and he said ‘I’m just going to start you off easy now to see how you get on’ and then I realised the instructor’s take on starting off easy was very different to my own. My fat little legs were scurrying so fast I couldn’t keep up with myself.”
Aw, bless my unhealthy little heart. (This is awful stuff – Ed.)
September had a diary entry that documented a shocking fall from my pedestal over the wearing of tracksuits in public: “Yes, it should be entirely clear to you now, I wore a tracksuit ... in public. I know, I know, it makes me want to vomit a little bit too. To be fair, I never intended on wearing something so vile in public and, in my defence, it’s not like it was a shell suit or anything: it was cropped grey tracksuit pants and a t-shirt and – oh, the shame, the shame – runners!”
Embarrassing, still embarrassing. October, November and December – recent months, I think you will agree, so you should all remember those diary entries, unless, of course, you don’t read Diary of a Drama Queen or have the memory of a peacock, so I’m not going to recap on those. Also, I’ve run out of space; how unfortunate. Happy New Year etc (You’re fired! Ed.)