I was going to begin this post with a warm salutation to my army of readers, but WordPress tells me there is just one ardent fan subscribing to my blog (and I know this to be someone who feels entirely obligated to do so). With that in mind:
Hello loyal subscriber!
(And any waifs and strays who’ve arrived here by mistake).
I don’t remember Christmas involving quite so much indulgence before my mother bought “Nigella Lawson’s Christmas”. As it stands, Christmas chez Heron consists mainly of devouring as many calories as possible, and then wallowing in the oppressive heat as waist bands groan, the fire roars and the central heating goes in to overdrive. As I type, I can barely hear the television over the sound of my arteries slamming shut at the prospect of another portion of the dreaded “Snow Bomb”, a pudding so rich it would make even the Queen envious.
But we’ve drunk a lot as well. Pouring cups of tea becomes a whole new experience when of the five cups you’ve poured, you can’t remember which one mum’s sweetener went in. It’s like Russian roulette, and it’s anyone’s guess who’ll take the saccharine bullet.
This holiday I also tackled my SSC poster, an enterprise that saw me journey to the bowels of Hell and back. It hasn’t all been SSC doom and gloom though. I managed to read two whole novels, a past time I thought medical school had beaten out of me a long time ago.
But now Christmas is over and New Years Eve is upon us. The more astute amongst you might have realized that given that I’m writing this, I’m obviously not out celebrating tonight. It seems even my parents can boast a social calendar more exciting than my own. Actually, I loathe New Years Eve. Or in fact any day of the year where there’s an expectation for me to stay up past midnight. On the whole I’m rather pleased at having the house to myself. Instead of sitting alone in the dark listening to Rubbish FM, I’ve raided my sister’s DVD collection (which is made up solely of costume dramas and the collected works of Humphrey Bogart, or “Bogie” as she affectionately knows him). Those of you out there who know me won’t be surprised that I did an exceptionally poor job of concealing my delight upon discovering series one of Downton Abbey lurking underneath Casablanca, so I’m well entrenched on the sofa, until my parents manage to compose themselves for long enough to slur down the phone that they’d like to be picked up or the Snow Bomb finally pushes me head first into a diabetic coma.
I suppose it’s the duty of every blog post that extols the merits or faults of New Years Eve to tackle the mire that is New Years Resolutions, but I’m trying my damnedest to steer clear. Those of you intent on making them will probably be well on your way to breaking them by now. But don’t worry, I’m not setting out to judge you transgressors. I won’t be making any resolutions for 2012, because as my Bogart loving sister said to me earlier, “you make them, then you break them. And who wants to start the New Year with broken dreams?”
So to the New Year then,
Onwards and upwards, thirsting for knowledge!