2014 was a bit of a year. Here. Have a brain dump.
My temper is better when I’m not stressed. My mother’s temper is better when she’s not ill. When I am stressed, my left eyelid twitches, and I sprout a recurring chin hair at an alarming rate. The twitch I can understand. The chin hair is entirely inexplicable.
Sometimes, it is better to walk away from sources of stress. This has involved the loss of a friend, and no longer running weekly Brownie meetings. I miss aspects of both. But I do not miss the stresses. Oh, I do not miss the stresses. I do not miss the time spent worrying, the time spent trying to help, the time spent doing accounts which refused to add up, the time spent failing to make someone feel better about themselves. I do not miss feeling like a failure because I can’t make things better.
I need to knit regularly. Heat pads and acupuncture work wonders on the knots in my shoulders. Deep tissue massage merely causes pain. I have bought a yuyu hot water bottle. My zombie onesie is one of the best surprise presents I’ve ever received.
I can run a marathon. I can support my husband when he’s ill, and when he’s worried, and when he’s bereaved.
I got married. It was the Best Day Ever. I love being married. N is in my corner, and I’m in his. And it’s just so totally reassuring.
I ran almost 800 miles (I’ve got three days. I’ll get those 3.5 miles done before New Year). I got a PB on a half marathon. I stopped cycling to work. It’s too scary.
My best friend got engaged. Her wedding will be her Best Day Ever, and my Second Best Day Ever. I have been dancing about in excitement, and singing, inaccurately, “She’s getting married in the morning!”. There’s a few mornings to go….and it’s an afternoon wedding.
I knitted several pairs of socks, a wedding shawl that I never used, and started a jumper for myself.
I nearly finished A Suitable Boy. I did finish Proust. And then Tristram Shandy. And War and Peace. The Kindle is a fabulous invention. Heavy books are rendered easy to transport. I held a book that Charlotte Bronte held. And another held by Henry James. And I got so excited, I whispered. I even started reading some GirlsOwn fiction after a long hiatus, and got part way through an Angela Brazil before I got distracted by Christmas.
My favourite dress got mothed. I have sprayed everything. Again. And will be visiting the Invisible Menders to get the holes that I cannot disguise with a brooch invisibly mended (at potentially £40 per hole, and with several holes, I am balking at getting the whole lot done. However, this is what savings are for). I did not burst into tears: it’s a dress, not a person. But I was miffed with myself.
I gained a neice. I lost a father in law.
I have more gin than I know what to do with. Ditto hot chocolate. This is direct contrast to the evening a few months ago when I had no gin that wasn’t sloe gin. And no milk to make hot chocolate. Mum suggested I got sloshed on all the gin. I pointed out that I’d induce alcohol poisoning. There’s two partial bottles in the fridge, and four more in the drinks cabinet! I do not possess enough tonic water. But, then again, it goes well with San Pellegrino fizzy juices, and also with pink rose lemonade.
I’ve only eaten three mince pies across Christmas, but put away an astounding thirteen sprouts on Christmas Day. Home grown, and frosted – so they’d lost the sour taste that often blights sprouts.
I have accepted that I shall never be entirely on top of the laundry in my life ever again.
And, next year, I should like to blog more frequently.