Twentytwelve

Happy 2012. It looks hazardous to me. With an unemployed husband and a recession I don't predict a covering in riches beyond our wildest dreams. The master plan is to sell our hovel and purchase another smaller hovel in the country. We could also sell my beautiful beloved seaside penthouse and let me be miserable for the rest of my life. You might detect I am not particularly partial to that idea.

In two weeks I am leaving Mr Smith and heading off to the Caribbean where I will pretend to be an International Artist when in reality I haven't picked up a paintbrush for a year. Gosh, I hope I can still do it. Don't give me that riding a bike thing because, actually, you can forget. I did. Very wobbly it was and I fell off a lot. I don't think you forget how to swim but there will no doubt be some day of drowning when I prove myself wrong. I wish Mr Smith was coming with me but he wants to stay at home and sulk. Anyway, he's useless at life saving. "She drowned just there."

When I return from my arduous two weeks of drinking rum in the tropics we have the dreaded Giant Clear Up so we can show our house to greasy estate agents and the odd day tripper. I am sure bored people do just go to look at houses as something to while away a dull afternoon. Let's face it who on God's earth is going to spend their money on this awful house in this awful area? Maybe someone looking for a bargain - it'll be cheap. Actually, the area isn't awful; it's not Brixton or Peckham but it ain't Belgravia. However, it's Mr Smith's castle. Really it's a big piece of dreary brown antique furniture that nobody wants. I'll polish it.

And now for a resolution ..... eat and drink less. I think that'll do.