Unable, until tomorrow, to take down the Christmas tree and completely consign the festive season once more unto the loft, I am sitting in my living room contemplating emptiness. The emptiness of the shelves which a few days ago were crowded with Christmas cards, of the velvet tablecloth and runner waiting to go in the wash and the cinnamon candles back in the cupboard. The emptiness of the house now that my daughter has returned to her university life and my son is about to embark on a new adventure. And I think - now what?
For I sense this could be a year of change.
Already we are straining at the ties which bound us to this semi-rural market town while our children were growing up: the ties of schools and stability and childhood friendships. Now those ties are financial ones, and our own future is too knotted up with the economic decisions of governments. At present we need a small lottery win or a serious promotion to free ourselves from the weights of debts and the vagaries of the housing market. But by the end of 2013 we will have choices again; a move back south might be less fraught with potential disaster, might, indeed, be a real possibility.
But what now for me?
I have been reading, this week, of the lives of women in magazines. They have their own businesses or media careers. They live in the south east in converted country farmhouses or flash city apartments. Their concerns are fashion and beauty and Smartphone addictions. I think of the world in which I live and it bears no resemblance. Setting aside my impatience - for these are the women who read and reject my writing, who patronise and pass judgement - I hanker for a little of this myself. I want my own business, writing scripts and novels. I want to be able to make choices and decisions which take me forward instead of leaving me stranded in the mire. I want this year to be about success.
There. I've said it. All I have to do now is make it come true.
