It's beginning to feel a little more like a new year. Somewhere between the strange period that was 2022, and this last quarter whizzing by, it really doesn't seem like a whole year has gone by. Everything from a World Cup in December, to my spending 3 months in two cities in Spain (six weeks in one, five weeks in the other) - and more - has contributed to this "still getting used to the idea of a new year" sentiment. It's also the first time I can recall New Year's Day falling on a Sunday. It was quiet, sombre even with a din of hope for new beginnings, as I walked through the green and blue of the park yesterday. And the grey overhead, it was an overcast sort of day. Today seemed to start the same way, a quiet and grey sort of morning. And a Monday morning. A new week, a new year. A new year. As I've started writing this piece, I suddenly catch some light around me. I turn and see blue sky and sunlight outside. Puddles remain on the pavement, but light overhead. With the turn of a new page, one that's bedding down and being smoothed out, I'm beginning to realise the newness of the year we've now come into. Twenty three years since the second millennium began. 23. That's considered a unique and lucky number by many.
It’s beginning to feel a little more like a new year