So it’s coming to the end of January and I’m putting the high hopes I had for my 2015 self to bed – before midnight, with a detox tea and a self-help book. It’s extraordinary – each year I put myself through the same torture… I desperately try to be someone else and soon realise I’m the same person I’ve been for the past 27 years. Weird that.
It turns out I’m not happiest in the baby cobra position; I like getting drunk; I prefer pizza to kale and I will always have a ladder in my tights. But because it’s a new year, if I embarrass myself, don’t look snazzy enough for a meeting or go mental after a latte I curse myself. ‘God Grace – be BETTER. Be more grown up. Be more organised. Just please STOP being you for one fucking minute’
But no more! It’s already bitterly cold and depressing outside, no need to bring that climate inside. My way of life might be haphazard, clumsy and at times unnecessarily dramatic but that’s just how I roll. I can’t suddenly get furious with myself because my coursework isn’t laminated or my shoe laces have come undone.
Perhaps one day I’ll get to grips with coffee, have a perfect ponytail and be a whiz at the ukulele but for now, I’m just going to sit here, excited about 2015 with a hot chocolate in my hand and a hole in my tights.
As resolutions go, I think Woody Guthrie’s are pretty great. I particularly like 15 and 18 and I’ve nailed 30 (see previous post on Pete Doherty)