Perhaps you thought, when you welcomed in 2020, at The Bells, with a hooch and a song, and an Auld Lang Syne, or a snazzy tune from Paulo or Eddi, that you could foretell your future with a fair degree of confidence: you’d a gallus, cheery disposition, a vocabulary wide as the Clyde, a brain the size of a planet, scientific, psychic and budgetary powers guaranteed to keep you and your nearest, dearest, safe, sound, intact, fed, comfortable and entertained. You’d plans for holidays, proposals, romantic interludes, career changes, house moves, graduations and all sorts of gettogethers over gin liqueurs, at football matches, proms and parties. Bet you’re not so clever now some eleven weeks into a pandemic lockdown - a what ????
You believed once that things could only get better and there were going to be slightly boring predictable tussles about what kind of Brexit it was going to be, and whether IndyRef2 was likely to be legal, permitted or, perversely, my favourite, wildcat. You maybe thought you’d keep not paying a telly licence fee but watch it anyway though still avoid Question Time and most party political broadcasts except the ones with Bobbing John promising the F word for the umpteenth time.