If I have learned one thing today, it is that I will never be a painter and decorator. To be fair, I knew that anyway. I can just about tell one end of a paintbrush from another and my colour perception, I am reliably informed, is rubbish and my brush strokes are about as artistically laudable as a mal-coordinated 4 year old's.

Despite this, I braved the cold weather and headed to my beloved radio station to attempt to paint tables. Yep: paint tables. After 12 years of abuse, our desks look as if we've just rescued them from a skip. Which, knowing our budget, we probably did, which could account for their notorious tipping action. My efforts were foiled as our tins of paint froze. Actually froze. This baffles me as our studio is generally about 50 degrees centigrade above the temperature of the earth's core. In my increasingly desperate attempts to get into the tin of black paint - I distinctly remember stamping on a well placed screwdriver at one point - I have managed to get large amounts of black paint all over my jeans, my hands and under my fingernails. It looks as if I've been having a mud fight with an unknown assailant.

In addition to failing to paint tables, I have also failed to tidy my health hazard of a room, do any university work whatsoever or turn on my phone - it's been blissfully turned off since Boxing Day. Small goals of the day, but failed ones nonetheless.

Still, have managed to order food from tescos so not an entirely wasted day. Admittedly it has produced the overwhelming worry of what the fit delivery man will think when he sees my nails - it genuinely does look like I've been wading through shit. I also won't be able to take a shower, on account of the fact that the shower's broken. On the bright side though, this time last year, I was homeless as my last house flooded rendering it unliveable. Yes, last year's New Year contained a unsurmountable level of shit.

This year started of much better. Rather than galavanting around the rougher areas of London drunk on high hopes, dreams and a rather spectacular amount of tequila, I was having a wonderfully relaxing bath. Coughing rather a lot and with the lights off so as not to aggravate my week-long migraine but it was alright - I had bubbles and Charlie Brooker's latest book and didn't wake up with the overwhelming urge to throw up and missing an iPhone.

Today has been filled with people bemoaning their headaches (pish, try living with mine), nausea and general sleeplessness. I, on the other hand, packed up my worldly goods and left my parents' house and moved back into my own and, despite my dump of a bedroom, mess of a kitchen and water-eschewing appliances it's good to be back. I may lack food (solved tomorrow) and paint, but I also don't have to deal with the arseache of a phone, facebook, twitter (I've turned off all three) or an earth-shattering hangover.

2010 ended fairly well for me. Comparatively. After over a week of being too sick to focus, I was well enough to turn on a computer screen and actually post a blog. After 6 days of being effectively bedridden, I could have cried with delight. If I was the crying type. Which of course I'm not. Unless it's a particularly sad episode of Doctor Who.

2011 will revert to type.

I seem to have a traditional pattern for how years go: In the first part I tend to become ill-of-a-hospital-necessitating-kind (check), somebody dies (rather depressingly, "check") and I have an object of unrequited affection (eh...). In the second part I tend to get slaughtered to drown out the depressing nature of my degree and sleep with someone inappropriate to drown out the depressing nature of what will have become unrequited love - last year's jaunt was, quite frankly, spectacular. The third part leaves me questioning my own ability to actually do a degree and, rather than spurring me on to work harder, I stop working at all so I have an excuse when my end results are bad - which, given that I have ceased working and refuse to revise, is inevitable. The fourth part leaves me considering homicide as I'm forced to live in close proximity with siblings for more than 14 uninterrupted days and depression as I look back on how shit the year has been so far and recovery after fucking up what was, and always was going to be, a dysfunctional and limited friendship. The fifth part is the time for "things can only get better" and I am cheerful as a result. The sixth, and final part, is the slow decent into starting the cycle all over again - the beginnings of what looks like meeting a half decent bloke and 20 hours sleep a week as I attempt to make something of my life.

This year - and bear in mind we're only three and a half hours into day two - is following the pattern. It's not possible to find this depressing. Not today. You see, I'm at home, I'm on my own and two minutes down the road is the university I worked my arse off to get to. Life...is shit. But not always, and not today. So, to all those broadcasting their post-New Year's depression to
web-at-large - fuck the lot of you.

I'm £800 in the black, Youtube has an seemingly-endless supply of Have I Got News For You and I've got a copy of Charlie Brooker's book to finish. So I'll leave youse lot to your "2011-will-be-as-shit-if-not-shitter-than-2010" musings - I've got a Gin and No Tonic and my duvet waiting and 2011 can go to hell. Tomorrow is more than enough. Even if the Tescos guy does assume I've been digging my own grave without a shovel.