January: New Year went alright, all considered.
March: Bloody tuesdays.
April: My thumb is going numb.
May: Weak of will and wandering mind drifted out on my night of supposed preparation for the Literary Festival from work and was doing so well when I was accosted by concourse wearing a blue velvet suit.
June: Praise be, Torygirl finally took her one-hour phonecall to her mother home, and out of the office.
July: In the early hours of this morning, walking back across Donnington Bridge; no wildlife this time.
August: There's a brown butterfly on the windowsill.
September: All week a migraine has been hovering, failing to coalesce, hovering.
October: This morning, on the way into work, the bus went past a girl wearing a dogtooth tweed ra-ra skirt over chocolate brown baggy cargoes.
November: I got an email for Jeremy Davis* my cross-dressing swimwear-model bounty hunter earth 2 counterpart, in my work inbox yesterday.
December Today I am working from home, waiting in for a hedge.
I was astonished at how it had summarised the year, from my bittersweet New Year's realisation that I'd slipped out of lifestage with my old social group (not as bad as it seems; most of them are older than me), to the slow career/house/job build I was pursuing in the early months, and the dark shadows underlying that. Then the bolts from above; house bought, Andy dead, and Mark, who'd been hanging around for almost a year by then, suddenly coming into the foreground. Then I smash the swan ... and the slow decay into trivia, DIY, music and so on all inevitably follows.
Truth in autobiography, who would have thought it.