Even in the worst of years there will be little pockets of happiness
The last time I got excited about a new year was exactly this time four years ago. I remember writing in these pages about my anticipation of the months ahead, the words tripping over themselves with all the bullish promise of what was to come. A leap year! A beautifully symmetrical number! An Olympics! A European Championships! The Dubs chasing down the first ever six in a row senior football title!
We all know what happened. Towards the end of January, the younger colleague whose desk faced mine asked if we should be worried about this mad sounding virus coming from China. Slow news month, this gnarly veteran of a million health scare stories assured him, nothing to be concerned about. That was the last time I would ever have a colleague whose desk faced mine, or, for that matter, a workplace that didn’t look onto my garden. No Olympics, no Euros, the six in a row achieved in an echoing, empty stadium.
On the much anticipated leap year day, my beloved dog died and I thought it was the saddest day of my life. By the end of that most awful of years I would reflect that February 29th was probably one of the better days. I lost my dog, my brother and almost my mind and I know that for many, many people, 2020 was even worse than that.
So on that cheery note, cue the fanfare for… 2024! Ta dah! A leap year! The Olympics! Euros! Dubs in the ascendancy! What could possibly go wrong?
If I’ve learnt anything from my lengthy spin around this globe (other than to not automatically dismiss health scare stories coming from the East), it’s that the dates don’t matter. Not even the extra one at the end of February. We bunch time together in convenient 365 — or 366 — day bundles based on our small planet’s journey around the sun, but very little about life or the universe respects that timeline. We hear people say that they had a great 2016 or a terrible 2018, when the likelihood is they had a decent March 14, 2016 to February 4, 2017, or an absolute shocker from May 2017 to August the following year. We have a tendency at this time of year to wrap a ribbon around the previous 12 months, brand all its events with date stamp and package it up for a future episode of Reeling In the Years — when the reality is that much of what happened started before January 1st and much more will continue well into the following year.
The homelessness crisis is unlikely to end tonight. The Russians and Ukrainians, the Palestinians and Israelis are unlikely to all meet up in some metaphorical no man’s land before midnight strikes for a gigantic football match while Paul McCartney plays his pipes of peace in the background. The chances are you’ve already seen the winner of the Best Film Oscar for 2024.
Nothing is ever neat. When people ask what age I was in any given year, I always respond with an unwelcome act of pedantry by giving them two answers. Unless you were born on at the stroke of midnight on December 31, all of us were two ages in every year. And most of us had wildly differing experiences and emotions within those man-made calendar years. On paper, 2023 was a truly shocking year and on a personal level, I can’t recall losing so many people I knew and loved in the same calendar year. You know about some of the famous ones: my background in music meant that I knew and mourned Christy, Sinead and Shane. But there was also my beloved oldest friend Catherine, and Mark and Paul just a week ago and so many others that I understand now why my Dad once asked for ‘a decent funeral umbrella’ for Christmas.
But some really lovely, surprising things happened for me in 2023 as well. And I think it’s OK to look back on a year that the official record will judge harshly and admit that on a personal level, it was the happiest I’ve had in years — and certainly since the last time I dared get excited over a leap year.
I think the moral of all this is that life is a giant numbers racket. And even when you look back in anger, you can usually concede to pockets of joy along the way. There will be both in 2024. There may even be an Olympics. So best foot forward, hats in the air and seatbelts firmly buckled: maybe not the best of times nor even the worst. But almost certainly somewhere in between.