A friend's Facebook status had a review of 2013: started poorly ended on a high. Same for me, too.
Miserable, cold, bleak and, in case I didn't get it, topped off with a bump on the head. Later in the year I completed a test of cognitive functioning - some exploitative nonsense put out by Patrick Holford to rev up people's worries about dementia - still functioning. So the crackles and fizzing were all in the mind.
Finally, in April, a sunny day. Walked to work by the river, everyone was excited about the brightness. I wondered why everyone didn't just take the day off. The end of the project continued inexorably, relentlessly marching towards the final day. Boss wasn't there, spent the weekend in Ireland.
A strange summer: beautiful days at the house, enjoying the craic with tree surgeons, lovely boys rolling on the vast expanse of carpet - like a magnet, compelling them to start wrestling. Empty days in the new building, clinical, sterile, lifeless.
Into the autumn: we've got to get out of this place.
Made it to Wolverhampton. Not the obvious choice, but it had something I wanted.
Finally, in November, we started to hit something: a big idea, something new no-one had done before. Lots of nay-sayers: ha! I know where I am now.
And then, December, apropos of nothing, an innocent community event, shabby, blu-tac scarred venue, lovely food, happy people, a wonderful, unexpected experience.
2013 ended well, as it should have done, if it knew what was good for it.