When, on the last day of 2016, you realise that the biggest decision you have to make each day is whether to use the curling tongs or straighteners you know it's time for change. I thought I'd already started to implement enough changes when my son left for uni not to still find myself in this position. I have a notebook full of scribblings, ideas for blog posts, a journal of my 50th birthday holiday week, and funny one liners fed to me by my BF. Not to mention the makings of a piece of flash fiction and my notes for a new radio show. And yet here I am, still flailing at life. I woke up this morning, the first day of 2017, home alone. I decided to spend New Year's Eve on my own. The son was away for a party and I told the BF in true Greta Garbo fashion "I want to be alone".
Being on my own was supposed to free me to do whatever I pleased, when I pleased, and without having to please anyone else. Lounge around in my house clothes (I don't own PJ's, even though saying that I was lounging in them would have sounded much more romantic) watch chick flicks, drink beer, maybe read some chick lit or be productive, bring some of these scribblings and ideas together. In reality by the time I'd had a couple of beers and my son headed off at 8pm I was already wondering how I would stay awake long enough to do any of these things. I didn't.
I spent half an hour thinking I was having a Twitter conversation with Simon Pegg, not hard to believe he had nothing better to do on New Year's Eve is it? I did have a Twitter conversation with Simon Pegg, but it was the wrong one. Much to my embarrassment after I'd catalogued the chat in status updates on Facebook and pm'd my son. I rapidly deleted the Facebook updates and ceased to chat with the 40 year old, lonely imposter. Had he nowhere else to be? Really? Ok, he wasn't an imposter, I didn't have my glasses on and the profile pic looked pretty professional in it's haze. I know, I should have gone to Specsavers.
After catching up on Eastenders, real home alone tv viewing, I went to bed at 11pm with:
A beer (had to show willing)
The landline (just in case my son or the police needed me in the night)
Laptop (just in case the Real Simon Pegg, or any other celebs I have tweeted over the last couple of months, actually had the good manners to reply)
Bluetooth Speaker (so I could listen to the 3 hour New year's Eve party mix on the radio, bed dancing?)
I turned the tv on with the volume down low, tried to find a subtitle button in the dark to no avail, and fell asleep before The Birdie Dance! My BF phoned, waking me, at midnight, to wish me a Happy New Year, tell me I was right that the Mrs Brown's Boys episode was a repeat of the Christmas Day show, and to invite me to lunch at his brother's house on New Year's Day. I declined the invitation after, yet again, commenting how they leave these things to the last minute in his family. And I told him I wasn't planning on leaving the house for two days as I have so much to do... I will be letting my creativity flow not flail.
I, like so many others, have been tricked into thinking that we have to make the first day of the New Year really count for something. The new year, new me. So at 9am on the first of January 2017 I relieved myself of that last beer I took upstairs and went back to bed and watched Come Dine With Me. That different enough for you? I was quite pleased when I finally got up that I had managed to be so Indie, what next? The world was my Oyster. Twitter flagged up Katie Hopkins on LBC, how better to start the new year than to listen to Katie Hopkins on the radio. Research purposes only of course. I laughed myself silly for two hours and then tweeted @KTHopkins, she didn't even reply to be mean to me. [Insert sad smiley here]
The day is not over, I have absolved myself thus far by at least writing this. I can now curl up on the sofa and watch The Devil Wears Prada feeling moderately satisfied that I have ticked at least one thing off my list; before my son returns and sprawls his 6ft 4 hungover body on the sofa and asks for cuddles and scrambled eggs.Suggest a correction