As we hurtle towards Christmas I am tripping over the words in my head. So much to tell you all, so little time and volition to sit and get them down.
When I was in 4th grade we did a project where we had to write down what we wanted to be. I had a plane, a skyscraper, a limousine and piles of money. I didn’t know of him then but clearly I wanted to be Donald Trump.
That refined itself over the ensuing years. I wanted to be a police office for a while – handing out all those uniform blue slips only served to fuel my authoritarian urges.
Then there was politics. I wanted to be a politician for quite a while with an underlying desire to be Prime Minister. This sits alongside my desire to be an actress complete with Oscar’s acceptance speech. It seems quite a skill of mine to go straight to the glory shot, forgetting the hard yards getting there. Somewhere in there I fell in love with words.
I was 40 on Saturday. My pathetic attempt at counting my blessings here as I counted down to the day, foiled by work and family. I always thought I was so mature and now I see me for the infant I was. I am wiser, more patient, happy. I am learning to enjoy the process while still yearning for the result. I appreciate the hard yards are indeed hard but I realise now that is OK. That without those darkest of days the sunshine on my face would never feel so sweet.
This year, in fact much of the last 15, has been an absolute bastard of a year. An endurance event. And yet as it comes to a close I see it as one of my best.
I realise I am a little bit policewoman, a consummate politician (a benevolent dictator if truth be told) and a writer. I don’t have the jet, the skyscraper or the piles of money. But I have a life so full of love and laughter. I am loved. Treasured even. And that’s all right with me.