It’s the afternoon of New Year’s Day, 2009. I’m writing this on my laptop, which, appropriately enough, is resting on my lap, being as how I’m stretched out on the lounge. We came home by cab at 5am this morning and fell into bed; I slept for a bit, then fell out again around midday. I’ve made it as far as the dressing-gown stage, but no further. I consider this to be a satisfactory state of affairs. Despite having consumed an appropriately broad range of liquor last night, I’m delightfully unhungover – just lazy and cotton-mouthed enough to condone a day of indolence and carbohydrates. Love Shack is playing on iTunes. I’ve already Facebooked my photos from last night, despite the wavery nature of today’s internet connection; since then, I’ve sat through the first half-hour of Tropic Thunder (crap), read Alan Bennett’s The Uncommon Reader (ends well, but feels odd throughout) and watched all of Pineapple Express (weirdly, stupidly wrong, with funny bits). Also, I fed the cats ham.
The new year hasn’t sunk in yet. There’s always a strange, anticlimactic irony to January 1st, given that most people trying to start health and fitness regimes in the fledgling annum wake up feeling, despite their best intentions, seedier than an overzealous pomegranate. Me? I’m just happy to be here, liver intact. And in that spirit, here are my plans for the rest of the evening: to do my jigsaw, watch some cartoons, work on my novel and maybe play Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic. Simple pleasures, now.
But tomorrow – who knows?