Hola 2010

Well, the first day of the new year dawns with a fresh blanket of snow and a big regret.

I didn't sleep at all last night. The turning of the year is a time for bittersweet introspection. Well, it is for me. For some, I believe, it is a time for drinking too much punch, shagging some Lynx-marinated ruffian against a wheelie bin and staggering home barefoot with your tights around your ankles. Thankfully I am not that kind of girl.

For me New Year's Eve is a night for coal-fires, candles, Nick Cave and single malt. It's not a time for meaningless sex or alcohol, it's a time to pick over the ashes of your tawdry life and wallow in despair and sorrow. Well, actually, I didn't do any of that this year, I had a bath, watched telly and alphabetized my spice-rack. But, as I have mentioned in an earlier blog, recently, I've been haunted by the ghost of last year's holidays, when I was utterly absorbed and besotted with the grouchy fanny rat, Mr R.

So, I am utterly committed to 2 resolutions:

1. I can not sacrifice another year to regret and mourning. I do think I am a little too sensitive for relationships. Bruises don't heal. I once wrote to Rochester that I have the bounce-back-ability of a cricket ball. Well, 2010, for Miss Underscore, will be spent clothed in rubber (metaphorically speaking, of course)! So I shall not think of the swarthy rogue, mention him or email him.

My regret last night was that I did send a drunken email. . . oh dear. I have no excuse, especially as I wasn't even drunk! Unless, the heady fumes from the spice-rack addled my brain - a moment of paprika induced psychosis maybe? Grrrr. I am an IDIOT, you know. Still. It was an honest email. I loved him (I still do) and I haven't found the 'off button' for that yet. He wasn't (and isn't) what I need. But he was absolutely, totally and all-consumingly what I wanted and craved.

2. I must start dating again. (Shudder.) At the very least though, it will give me some cracking blog-material, as my dates always turned out to be disasters on a monumental scale. The movie that captures the carnage of a Miss Underscore date? Well it wouldn't be Love Actually, it wouldn't be Love Story, nor would it be Gone with the Wind. It would be the Poseidon Adventure! In other words, a catastrophe, an utter wash-out. Generally though this year, I shall be less reclusive. I have got into the habit of just hiding away. The easy option always seems to be to stay home and stay safe.

Now, my 3rd resolution could either be eat fewer crumpets with butter and golden syrup, to start recycling or to only use my blog for positive, chirpy, joyful entries (no more cruel depictions of Pompous Pilate and the Stepfords). What to choose . . . . what to choose . . . Actually, you know. I think my first 2 resolutions are enough to be going on with. I need those crumpets. Life is too short to wash Chappie cans and as for Pompous - well. . . a writer must speak the truth!

p.s. I didn't really alphabetise the spice rack on New Year's Eve. That would be sad, wouldn't it? Of course I didn't. I spent the evening picking the bobbles off my cashmere cardigans, cursing myself that I never invested in one of Victor Kiam's Remmington Fuzz Away contraptions in the 80s. Story of my life - bad timing and missed opportunities!