Men talk of killing time, while time quietly kills them. ~Dion Boucicault
I realise that this may sound incredibly glib coming from my twenty-four year old self, but as I grow older the decades seem to roll by more rapidly. My first decade seemed interminable, a nostalgic montage of Barbie vans and trips to the beach. Then the teenage years struck, and I spent every second wishing away the agony of puberty. But after the bells of New Year struck in 2011, I realised with panic that ten years had slipped away. That a decade from now, I’ll be thirty four. Hopefully I’ll be a doctor of literature with a dazzling career and a cottage in Scotland (life is not worth living without unrealistic aspirations), but importantly, I hope time won’t have sped by in a blur of deadlines and worry.
So Happy New Year! My resolutions are many, and I am resolute. This year I’m going to focus on speaking at one or two conferences. I will try and get something published (which also means I have to produce an article that is publishable). I must get better at networking with potential employers, rather than leaving events early to have a crafty pint with my friends down the local. I have an irrational distain for exercise, but this year I’m going to take up Pilates, which I hear is gentle and relaxing (v.good). My body is my temple etc. Saying that, we are five days into the year, and I have spent it curled up on the couch, stuffing my face with Christmas chocolates, and reading Steig Laarson’s Millenium Trilogy, which is decidely unacademic. But Christmas doesn’t end until the 6th Jan…right?