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I detest this time of year. Not in a “bah humbug” kind of way, but this administrative reboot of the calendar makes me reflect on the past twelve months and forces me to take stock of where I am and what I’ve achieved. And 2011 has sucked like a toothless granny eating a mint imperial.

I don’t think there has been one day where I can honestly say I have been pain free or not exhausted. Some days have been better than others, but I’m having to accept that I just can’t do what I want to anymore and that makes me angry and frustrated with myself. Depression has reared its ugly head again too, no doubt due to a combination of my illness and the medication I was taking to deal with it. The house is always needing stuff done and my ironing pile really isn’t funny.

Writing. Ah, yes, I remember writing. It’s that thing where you catch characters and stories and pin them to paper like specimens in a butterfly collection. But this year they are still annoyingly flitting about my head, laughing at me and avoiding my net like pros. Wee bastards. I haven’t finished more than a flash fiction since the summer holidays. At least photography has kept me going creatively.

Many good things have happened too: I am very happy with my family life, I was lucky enough to have had two holidays, I was long-listed in  Words With Jam competition and won umpteen books. I have been blessed with many good friends who have made me smile on even the darkest days and my dogs have been a constant joy.

But while some people may be looking forward to 2012 and making plans and resolutions for the year ahead, I’ll be battening down the hatches, bulk-buying chocolate and flapjacks and sticking two ladylike fingers up at old Father Time when I turn 50 in March.

As you were.
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