I am writing to tell you that I am over you.
I’ve spent the past month since you unceremoniously dumped me working through my feelings about you. Not that you told me we were over until I’d already worked it out – you just stopped returning my calls.
I’ve been thinking back to the heady days earlier this year when you showered me with treats and promises, and made me feel like you cared. I now see that you were little more than a summer romance. It was a brief affair, but I’ll admit it, it was fun while it lasted.
It began, as these things so often do, with the unnatural heat of April, followed by exciting new contacts in May, and satisfying AND well-paid work in June and July. There have been joyful birthday celebrations for some of my dearest friends, milestone achievements by my children, simple but idyllic holidays, memorable meals, and lots of new friends who I hope I’ll keep seeing long after you. Then I think of all the promises you made, the tantalising worlds you showed me. Worlds of regular work, stimulating colleagues, disposable income, good food (lots of good food), lunch meetings, self-respect, sought opinion, valued experience… all built on sand.
I haven’t heard who you are with now, but I’m certain it’s no one I know. You’ve treated many of my friends as badly as you have me. Some of them much worse.
But I want you to know that whatever you are up to, I have moved on. I’ve bought my 2012 diary and I’m filling it in. There are already two parties in January to look forward to, the Moonwalk challenge in May, the distraction of the Olympics, and of course the uncoiling of the days once they’ve passed their shortest in a fortnight’s time.
At least 2012 isn’t leading me on like you did. It has been honest about how difficult things will be. It will be hard work and we will be poor; it will seem like the world is against us; there will be times when I’ll doubt whether we’ll make it through. But it is also offering the chance to refocus, to try to remember who I am.
And so, 2011, I wish you all the best for your last 25 days, I sincerely do. Forgive me, though, if I am slow to enter into the Christmas spirit and celebrate your big moment. However, come 11.59pm on 31 December I will be ready, glass charged, not to drown my sorrows, but to toast your demise.