Last Sunday, one of the large panes of glass in our french doors exploded. There was no external impact. It just gave up on life. That, I thought, just finishes the year perfectly. A final fuck you from 2020.

Many words have been written and will be written, about what a crap year 2020 has been. For me, putting aside externalities, it hasn’t been as bad as it could have been. I’ve missed the get-togethers, cinema, museums and country houses. But there was also much to be glad about: our eldest daughter moving away to university, getting a job and revealing that she can function as a human without our input or opinions; switching jobs and recovering some sanity, building a space of my own, driving less and walking more.

Coronavirus changed our lives in ways that were unimaginable twelve months ago. I’m looking forward to the new normal being replaced by the old normal.

I’m hugely grateful to the bloggers that plug away at their sites week in, week out. I’m grateful for the brief glimpses into your lives and the knowledge that while we’re all going through same thing, we deal with it in our own ways. I’ve made an effort to reach out and tell you that. I’ll continue doing the same in 2021.

I have no willpower and fragile self-esteem, so there are no goals or resolutions for next year. What will be, will be, and it will be enough.

All the best.