The turkey’s been eaten and the 9am G&Ts have been drunk (or at least the ones it’s OK to publicly acknowledge. The rest will obviously continue throughout the year.) which means the next logical step is a needless postmortem of 2017 and resolutions and things. I don’t know if you were aware of this, but if you have a WordPress account and anything approaching an even mildly curated Instagram presence it’s actually the law to sum up a personal year that nobody really cares about and look ahead to another personal year that nobody really cares about either.
I didn’t really have many resolutions for 2017. After Edinburgh Fringe glory in 2016 and with a completed novel manuscript in hand, I had a confident-but-vague assumption that I’d at least be a little bit Twitter famous by the end of 2017. I don’t want to spoil things for anybody who hasn’t been avidly following the story of my life, but I remain a muggle in every sense.
I did tell myself I was going to stop buying fast fashion with probably-unethical origins, and I passed that one with flying colours, so I suppose that’s a good thing. It’s just not very glam, though. All that’s really happened is that I’ve now become the kind of person who fights off grannies for the best stuff in Falmouth’s charity shops. Plus, it’s not the kind of resolution I can ever draw a line under, because I can’t just decide that the whole concept of being ethical was a blip and 2018 Nicola is suddenly fine with a nice bit of sweatshop action. So Cornwall’s old people are just going to have to learn to use their elbows a bit more at the hospice shop because I will continue to chase that cheap, ethical, cat-hair-covered knitwear.
I’ve caught myself looking back on 2017 a few times recently and thinking I don’t feel like I’ve achieved much. It’s normally when I’m on my way to work, because small midlife crises are exactly what Monday mornings are for. And then I realise that I’ve left my Cornwall flat to walk to my Cornwall office where I do the new job I didn’t have this time last year and then I realise that a couple of things might have changed after all. Little eight-year-old Nicola, in particular, would be thrilled if slightly disappointed at the lack of smuggler’s cave expeditions. Plus I’m now excellent at rocking a pair of ill-fitting charity shop jeans, and that is all that really matters.
Now I just need to come up with some bullshit, non-commital resolutions for 2018 so that we can meet back here in a year and continue the charade that any of this has any meaning at all. The countdown starts now!