And so, 2024 ends, and we are tempted to score it out of ten (but we won’t).

We survived, we are still here, and that must be the overriding positive.

Life didn’t give us the garlands we sought, but neither did it kill us off in page 252 like some supporting character that had outlived their purpose. 

Aspirations are just that, they are things that would be nice, but they are not what defines us.

We are many things, and not yet succeeding in the ambitious pursuit of a dream cannot be the metric that dictates our worth. The journey thus far has taught us many lessons, some only realised long after the event finished, but slow learner or not, the points have been accepted and where in my gift to do so changes made.

Maybe my dream is only ever meant to be that – a flight of fancy, a fantasy willo the wisp always just that little bit out of reach – possibly that could indeed be true…

Or, we can get knocked down, and rise each time, our pride dented, but our face even if marked by blood and sweat will be so marked in a noble cause.

We aim never be one of those cold and timid souls that never fail because they’ve never tried. Our time in the ‘Arena’ may be a struggle under the gaze of an indifferent audience, but it will always be a noble pursuit to share our art.

And is my painting frightening, does my brushwork reflect the skill and subtlety of a three-year-olds potato print proudly displayed on the side of a fridge?

Possibly.

Although I’d like to think of my writing as a portrait painted with words, then it would be a suitably crafted pre-Raphaelite whimsy romantic where Ophelia doesn’t have flowers in her hand, but a blood-stained dagger. I have a flouncy shirt – so possibly an evening spent by a Swiss lake consuming opiates telling tall tales will follow…?

So, my dear lost readers, fear not, we will square our jaw to the wind, take the knocks and soldier on.

Hug those you love and stay safe – oh, and Happy Christmas!