Several things have happened, or have continued happening, over the last few months. Some edited highlights:
I turned forty. That was not unexpected, in fairness. I dealt with it as best I could, and strangely no bourbon was involved, only the company of several truly wonderful friends who took me to Weihnachtsmarkt in, er, Birmingham, which is apparently a thing, and a rather fantastic thing too.
I got the hang of front crawl, more or less. I can at least swim a length without suffocating, which is a marked step forward. I continue to swim, and look forward to that mythical land called summer where one can swim in the big blue thing at the rim of the world.
I began attending a Salvation Army corps, and developed a (kind of accidental) interest in Christianity, which I'm enjoying very much, thanks.
I survived a car crash, which left me unharmed but wrote off my beloved Sylvia. I am now carless, clipped of wing and resentful of train, saving money for a successor to my wonderful Focus.
I set no New Year's Resolutions. None. Not a sausage. I'm taking a year off to bum around, in a purely Resolution-y sense.
I celebrated New Year itself in a nightclub on the end of Eastbourne Pier, during a storm. That was interesting, and has promoted Eastbourne to a venue for the book I'm working on (well, one of them. I'm coming to that).
I accidentally bought a trombone. Bourbon was involved that time. I can play two notes on it so far, neither easily identifiable, neither entirely deliberate, and occasionally at the same time.
So, right now I'm working on no fewer than three books simultaneously - The Vagrant And The Snowflake, which I've spoken of before and possibly needs some more percolating before I really go to town on it; an untitled crime novel with an unusual USP, which is going very well; and a nonfiction account of some of my recent adventures in real life, which for once actually seem to merit publication, at least for a fairly narrow segment of readers.
I'll explain more about that one another day. Nonfiction is much easier to write, actually - I am able to use my natural tone, the same with which I pen this blog, and it flows nicely. For reasons also to be explained another day (possibly not the same day. Revelations are best parcelled and served in discrete courses) the crime novel is much more... crafted than my usual work. It needs to be assembled, polished and painted in ways that my usual writing doesn't.
There you go, then: a full-length blog post saying precious little concrete, except that I lived life for a bit and forgot to say anything. I'll try not to leave it so long next time.