I know the prodigal son isn’t meant to throw a shit grenade into a crowd just before he makes his miraculous return. But seeing as I decided to abandon you all for six months without notice, and then waltz back in as if nothing had happened – without even calling first or bringing petrol station flowers – what better time to deliver a crock of semi-undesirable news anyway?
*Deep breath* For me, 2016 was a good year.
And, I know, I know. It was Trump. It was Brexit. It was no more Bowie, Rickman or Wood. The world had to swallow a massive pill of anti-female-anti-progressive-anti-liberal-crap, but in my little world bubble it was pretty damn successful.
If you feel like you want to throw a brick at your screen now or put a muzzle on me to stop the bragging, then you do you. Because, quite frankly, the thought of 2016 being a high is enough to make anyone want to twat Nigel Farage across the chops.
Just as everyone else’s world was not immune to huge change, my South London bubble wasn’t either.
Short term this change was about as enjoyable as that year seven French exchange when someone told you that you could take a shot of vodka through your eye. But long term, it has made everything pretty fucking brilliant.
- I’m no longer in a terrible relationship (go me).
- I’m no longer sharing a flat with the whole of SW4 and their unwashed crockery.
- I’ve had great adventures in India and Tahiti (and Croydon answering a Gumtree advert, but that’s another story).
- I’ve learnt how to use a semi colon properly in a sentence.
- I have a proper girl squad, and we do things like write Christmas cards and buy potted plants.
- I work at a publication that makes getting up at 6.15am every morning seem worthwhile.
In case that’s made you feel nauseous at my #smugface then be relieved at the fact I left my bra in a taxi in July, so swings and roundabouts.
Dress – Zara
Shoes – Birkenstock