Well, that's been a rum old year. Luckily nothing too untoward this time; I hope the same can be said for yourselves.
Still working at Helminthdale; seriously considered jumping ship in this year's bloodletting but it works out that there's a considerable financial advantage to hanging on for next year's bonfire of the public services. I've survived it this long I should be able to survive another year, though it's hard work not to be extremely despondent with it all. Many of my friends have jumped ship from their respective local authorities; I can only envy them. I have my list of stuff I'm planning to do when I get paid off.
Helminthdale has been Helminthdale, except perhaps a bit more so: a shrill, last-minute lurch into insanity before the inevitable winding-up that must be in the offing in a year or two.
The Small Object of Desire has had a good year, being involved in a quite spectacular bit of new development for one of this year's quite spectacular new library developments (the number of these is ironic in a year where libraries are being closed or offloaded onto press-ganged volunteers but only the churlish couldn't take some positives from a visit to any one of them).
At home all is cluttered and messy and cheerful. The Cat I Do Not Have has discovered the joy of howling fearfully at the cat from next-door-but-one early on a Sunday morning. The Small Object of Desire has commandeered the dining room as The Sewing Room. Most of the sofa is piled eighteen inches deep in Books To Be Read.
Take care and be nice to each other.
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