Happy New Year, you filthy animals! Welcome to 2024 and whatever it might hold.

Since, in our house, 2023 brought serious illness, four house moves, one abandoned house purchase, a disastrous boat experiment, two lost jobs and, last but not least, three beloved relatives passing away, it will not surprise you to hear that I was more than happy to set fire to that metaphorical wheelie bin on New Year's Eve. I sent 2023 off with a champagne toast, a two-fingered salute and a cheer of “thank bloody God” but with more swearing.

It’s not just the last year I’m glad to see the back of, I also particularly enjoy these early days of the new year that feel pregnant with opportunity. The pressure of Christmas is finally over, we’re left idly picking over last year’s events and the leftover Quality Street and anything still feels possible.

Join me for a game of New Year Bingo. In 2024 I will be fitter and finally get back into running/hot yoga/cross training. I will cook from scratch every night. I’ll reply to emails the minute I get them. I’ll stop running perpetually ten minutes late. I won’t look like I chose my outfit from my bedroom floor (because I did), instead I’ll wear classic tailoring and crisp white shirts. I’ll finally read Proust instead of just quoting the Madeline bit. Bingo!

Except, when you........

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