Well, we made it (limped, rather) to this side of 2022 in one piece. Last night I sat in front of the telly (the rarest of occasions), binge-watching Wednesday, zonked out on Nurofen Plus and cradling a hot water bottle, packets of tissues, and a glass, ok, a bottle of red wine. Later I started Babel by R.F. Kuang, a Dickensian bildungsroman (so far) set in a magical Victorian England, replete with snarky footnotes on colonial aspects of this or that phenomenon.

Today: the annual tractor run, which means the end of Christmas season, FINALLY. The pub will host the afters. The mother-in-law made a gazillion sandwiches. After watching the run on Main Street, I walked Sam around the town for an hour, feeling light, so light, I thought I'd get carried off into the clouds, listening to the Pretenders' "Back on the Chain Gang" on my phone.

Happy New Year, D-landers.

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