I have only spent 20 minutes in the Salmon Palace since 19th December. It will be odd to go back and see if it feels anything like home; like somewhere to hole up and wait out January with miso soup and DVDs under a pile of blankets, or like an arbitrary, anonymous space with ill-thought out piles of my stuff in every corner. I need to try and force myself to hang my pictures, build the last, reproachful flatpack, buy an iron, try and cook something other than toast. It's not exactly a resolution, but I would love not to be quite as scrambling and chaotic this year. I have a filing system (well, by 'system' I mean a slightly wonky ring binder) and every intention of using it. I am filled with January resolve and puritanical zeal. I give it a week.
What I will definitely do, however, is take some amusing photos of the box of clothes I have finally sorted out to ebay (having no wardrobe is very galvanising). They are a hilarious catalogue of my fashion mistakes of the last 10 years. I am snickering to myself thinking of the freakish Martian emperor Pleats Please outfit and the many boxy beige suits. Also, since I still don't have a remotely practical mirror, the photos will probably be taken standing on the tumble drier. Think of it as my New Year gift to you. If I actually manage to get my dirty, lazy arse off this chair, it might even be tonight.