My mom is one of those “decades don’t start with a zero the end” pedants.

I’m not.

I realised in the year 2000 that it was not worth arguing with her. What I find so funny about it is that it’s kind of a linguistic pedantry vs a mathematical pedantry and my mother, no great fan of mathematics, chooses the mathematical side of the argument.

For me, 2020 is the start of the new ‘20s, and they appear to be roaring in all the wrong ways.

But this is not a place where I comment on the world around me, burning though it may be.

It’s been a sad march to this new year. I will often look back on 2019, too much happened not to, but it won’t be with fondness. My heart broke and re-broke. My first novel was published, though it feels fucking ages ago and like it happened to someone else. I started writing a new novel and rewrote another novel. The agent I had been working with said goodbye. Some other people said goodbye. My dad died. My MS got worse. I started writing a book about drinking whisky, something I’m quite good at. The drinking part; the jury’s still out on the writing part.

So yeah, I think the last year was the saddest I can remember. Not the worst. I’m not sure I can rank years from best to worst or vice versa. But definitely the saddest.

My cat turned ten, but I forgot to have a birthday party for him. He deserved one. Wee bugger though he may be, he does always seem to cheer me up when I need it most.

Quite a lot of lovely things happened last year as well. I was often surrounded by good friends who love me and I love back. I made good wine. Kind and wonderful people got married in beautiful places. Babies were born who deserve a better world than the one we’re giving them. I spent more time in Scotland than I had in a fair few years, and went to the wild places.

I drank well. Though perhaps a bit too much. I ran a bunch, though not as much as the year before.

I won’t do resolutions. I rarely resolve anything, nor am I resolute. But stumbling into 2020 I have hope, in spite of the world’s apparent and reported grimness. I have hope that this year won’t be as sad as last, that I’ll have a bit more control over my own destiny. That I’ll finish a book or two, and maybe sell some more of the ones I’ve already published. There’s quite a lot to be hopeful about. I’m going to keep telling myself that and eventually believe it. It’s a new decade after all. Ends in a zero, so it’s a clean slate.

Just don’t tell my mom.