Whether we like it or not, the advent of the year’s end is a natural time to reflect on what’s gone before it, and how things have changed – or otherwise.
2010 seemed, at its close, to have been the year of The Date – good, bad and indifferent. Thankfully, 2011 has been rather different. In fact, as far as these things go, I’d consider that this just gone has been a pretty vintage year in la vie de la Blonde.
I’ve finished the year in a different job, in a company that’s doing highly exciting things, and expanding - globally and rapidly. The clients, although demanding, provide me with challenges that I’ve not had in a while – and a few nice words from people at the top suggest I’m not screwing things up too badly.
I’ve met some bloody incredible people that I would now rather chop off an arm than be without (enter The Redhead, stage left, to name but one).
I’ve contemplated what you can tell about someone from what they put in their supermarket shopping basket, and whether you should date them.
I managed to lose a large portion of my library by lending people books, and never getting them back. But at least I know my friends are reading good books.
I went to New York twice; loved it both times; and learnt that New Yorkers have a different definition of black tie to the rest of us.
I contemplated the relative hotness of Don Draper and Rupert Penry-Jones.
I survived a bomb scare.
I had a suspected pulmonary embolism and was reminded how much I love the NHS.
The neighbours learnt the expensive way that it’s not wise to ignore the Party Wall Act (1996) and put up conservatories on your neighbour’s gardens.
I very nearly gave up on dating altogether.
And just when all that sounds like 2011 wasn’t too rosy, I was reminded that life is actually pretty bloody good.
I got cross that people consider men holding the door open for women is sexism. Because it’s not.
I breathed a sigh of relief that I’ve never met a parent quite like the one who sent that email.
I wrote a letter to my 16 year-old self, which suggests that I’ve learnt a lot.
I decided that intellect is an aphrodisiac.
I got cross that, despite running the pictures of hot A-level students year after year, some journos saw fit to get snotty at the PRs who suggested they do.
Oh, and I didn’t give up on dating in the end. And, er, did quite well out of it.
All in all, a pretty good year. 2012 has much to live up to.
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