The end of the year.
Let’s face it, when Trump was sworn into office no-one really thought we’d make it this far.
We’ve dodged asteroids, the Rapture (at least twice), World War 3 (so far) and getting a Bank Holiday for the next Royal wedding.
For me, 2017 was supposed to be better than 2016. After all 2016 claimed my dad, and my job ended (one of those being far worse than the other).
In 2017 I was job free which was nice. It probably went on a bit too long, as the job search was fraught, tempers were frayed and voices raised. I had exciting fluctations with my mental health as well, but on the whole I enjoyed it. I didn’t do everything I should have done – so I have regrets, but 2018 I am going to do them. I have plans and ideas. And enthusiasm.
2017 is also the year in which mum had her stroke. If anything defined the year, it’s that. Easter changed everything. And, to make matters worse, mum’s hospitalisation in Middlesbrough meant I had to go to Mother Shipton’s cave to make up to Carole for all the driving.
In 2017, I didn’t read enough.
In 2017 I turned 40, to no pomp or ceremony.
In 2017 I discovered escape rooms, which was amazing. After however long of wanting to do them we finally did one. And then another, and another and…
And now I work in one. And I love it.
So some parts of 2017 have been awesome, they’ve just had to contend with a lot of shit.
2018 has to be better.
Happy New Year, guys.