Not Remembering 2018

It's tempting, on a New Year's Eve, to do one of those retrospectives of the preceding year.  But, you know, I've always found that sort of thing tedious: I don't need a recap of the year - I was there, I know what happened and, in many instances, I don't want to be reminded.  The other temptation is to try and look forward to the New Year.  Something I also dislike: for one thing I think that the whole concept of New Year resolutions (which most of these exercises degenerate into) is utter bollocks, for another, the future is unknowable and it is pointless speculating about it.  Things never turn out the way you expect, (and trying to use the past as a guide to the future is equally pointless, as nothing ever happens the same way twice).  But, as my local pub has announced that it will be closed by ten at the latest tonight, I've got nothing better to do than write a few words about the year just ending.  It should come as no surprise to anyone that I won't be sorry to see the back of 2018.  What with losing three months to serious illness and troubles at work, (the two are, of course, inextricably intertwined), things didn't even start to return to some semblance of normality until the last couple of months of the year.  I'm finally feeling more my old self, (my old self from three or four years ago, that is, before the work stress started my downward spiral), and, hopefully, things will continue to improve over the coming months. 

But, despite everything that has happened, 2018 hasn't been the worst year I've ever known.  Not by  a long chalk.  After all, nobody close to me died, I didn't lose my job, I wasn't left struggling to keep paying the mortgage and stop myself becoming destitute - all things I've experienced in previous years.  (These days, of course, I no longer have a mortgage to pay - which has, as I've gotten used to the fact that it is now all paid off, radically transformed my attitude to work). I also, somehow, managed to keep The Sleaze going through all the troubles of the last year.  I'm not sure how - whereas in the past I've been able to plan stories weeks in advance, this year it was a hand-to-mouth existence, with stories written on the fly, on the day of publication.  Maybe I'll be able to keep it going in 2019.  Who knows?  Certainly not me - I don't even have a clue what the next story is going to be.  In fact, I don't seem to have much of a clue about anything any more.  One of the main reasons I don't like doing annual retrospectives is that, at the best of times, I can never remember what happened in the previous twelve months.  This year it's even worse: having spent a quarter of the year laid up sick, I haven't a bloody clue what went on.  It's pointless trying to do a 'top ten books I read in 2018', for instance, as I don't bloody recall parts of the year with any clarity.  But enough of all this, I'm going to settle down and welcome the New Year with a Dario Argento movie, some beer and some sausage rolls.  I've no 'witty' posts to make on social media to mark the arrival of 2019, as seems de rigreur these days when a New Year rolls around, so I'll just wish you a Happy New Year here and now.  See you next year.