Being boring

I’ve been doing the Christmas cards: that strange delayed communication where you tell someone about your year without knowing what’s happened in their’s (because, assuming you meet the last posting date, the letters inevitably cross). And the older you get, the more worrying the possibilities become and the more careful you have to be. I wouldn’t say that my year has all been plain sailing but if you’re looking for drama there’s nothing to report. Worked too hard, went on holiday a bit. That’s it. Instead of writing a letter, I’m inclined to send my friends a copy of Wendy Cope’s poem Being Boring.

There was drama enough in my turbulent past: Tears and passion - I’ve used up a tankful. No news is good news, and long may it last. If nothing much happens, I’m thankful.

I won’t write it all out because of copyright - but I’m sure someone has, so feel free to google it. Or, if you’re feeling energetic, go to the library: it’s page 9 of the book called If I Don’t Know. When we get the end-of-year media roundups next week, the most-used cliche about 2008 is bound to be the one about ‘living in interesting times’. In those circumstances, I’m actually quite glad that my own life is less than interesting.