And so 2012 has got off to a thoroughly lovely start. (As it was always bound to, really, with a satisfying name like that. Twenty twelve – or, if you really prefer, two thousand and twelve – sounds like a Good Proper Year, the kind of year that Jay Sean would write a song about.) New Year itself without the traditional SexFest party was a bit of an innovation: the first time since I was 15 that I didn’t spend the first ten minutes of the year running around in the road and bashing my nearest and dearest friends over the head with pillows\balloons. I could easily get used to its replacement, though, which involved cake, wine and a just-delivered-in-time Indian takeaway at Charlotte Speechley’s housesitting gathering. And some inspired make-up artistry from Amy, too.
Since then I’ve pubbed with Sanna, dined with Oliver and Abi, drank with Joshua and Robert and manuevored my family and Grace’s family to go and see News Revue together – not to mention going back to work for more dutiful and honest labour – which is hardly bad going for the first week of 2012. If I just declare the year a success now and stay in like a hermit I could also make good progress on my new years ‘resolutions’, which it usually never even occurs to me to make but this time have somehow solidified enough in my mind to be real. (I will read more books than last year, again. I will not keep conveniently forgetting that I’m supposed to be flat hunting. I will sign up to Code Year and learn something new. There, that’s enough. Any more and I’ll be forced to resort to that all-encompassing fallback target which we used to pull out at school when things were desperate – “I will improve my handwriting” – which no one ever really meant because anyone with bad handwriting is secretly proud of the idea that they are too busy to shape letters properly.)
I saw The Iron Lady today, which didn’t do very much for me even though it was all very well made and everything. I think I just enjoy more plot and narrative beyond the framing device of “an aged and dementia-suffering Margaret Thatcher remembers the greatest political hits of the 1980s”, and would have probably enjoyed a film more which focussed tightly on a smaller period of her life. (Then again, I might just have enjoyed a film more where young children sitting behind me didn’t keep asking questions about what was going on. Hey ho.)
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Off we go