Crikey, I’m tired.  Just a day to go, and we’ll be in 2017 – should the Fates allow. 2016 seems to have been particularly cruel in picking off so many well loved people, so you never know. What are we going to do without Victoria Wood and George Michael? No more Let’s Do It with Freda and Barry – and no more Freedom.

Is anyone else also climbing the walls and wondering when things in the world are going to stop being very strange indeed – and bored of four major news items going round like revolving doors in a large but not very good shop – namely Aleppo, Brexit, What Donald Trump said on Twitter next – not forgetting Vladimir Putin of course. Occasionally, Theresa May will make the news because she is wearing expensive trousers or a really good jacket when being ignored at various European summits.

I have always disliked the wretched week between Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve, (the capitals show how much importance is placed on these two days), when everything seems to grind to a halt and time stretches out.  I have, however, limited myself to one Chocolate Orange so far this Christmas, although admittedly this was eaten in the manner of a snake enjoying a chicken in one sitting.Too much time on my hands likewise gives me too much time to think and go round my flat like a goldfish in a bowl.

Admittedly, it is a very nice bowl and I should not complain, but it’s still a dull and lonely place to be at times.  As I have said before, being single is all well and good, but there are only so many walks you can take by yourself, volunteering you can do and films you can watch to fill the time.  But I still can’t face the horror of Tinder or a dating website in case I meet another man who steals other men’s identities and is actually a sociopath (a true story).

As “dates” have been pretty much non-existent this year, I have had to rely largely on entertaining tales from others to remind me that there are still people out there who are as confused by everything as I am.

Take my friend F.  She is fabulous. Accomplished, witty, bright and pretty.  F met a nice-sounding chap on an app called Happn in London (not sure why there’s no “E”, perhaps a vowel cost extra).  Apparently Happn tells you where you crossed paths with likely suitors, and if they’re feeling shy, they can also send you virtual “charms”.  I’m not sure if this would work in Minden Place car park, or Waitrose at St. Saviour, but I digress. Anyway, they had dinner, then he quizzed her about her job and – wait for it – ASKED HER HOW MUCH SHE EARNED. They then had a drink, possibly because F had lost the power of speech at this point.

On being asked why she did this rather than, say, sit by herself on a bed of rusty nails, F said she thought things could only improve, but was sadly proved wrong, when he uttered the immortal line: “I paid for dinner, so you have to buy all the drinks.”  He had however kindly lent her two DVDs of one of those dark Danish mini series that I can never understand and where the lead female characters (always stern), sport interesting knitwear and parkas before tracking down a murderer.  When F didn’t send them post-haste, she received the following missive: “If you don’t return my DVDs, I shall have to take action.” Happily she did not receive a summons to attend her nearest Small Claims Court, but it was a close-run thing before she invested in a jiffy bag to return them.

F and I mulled all this over when taking a beach walk.  We happened upon a phrase written in the sand in cursive script: “Colin and Sheena: December 2016″, surrounded by sea shells and some scroll shapes they had made with a stick. Of course we should have said how lovely it was, them taking the trouble to record their love and all.  But of course, hardened cynics that we are, we shrugged and said that we wished them luck, before watching Colin and Sheena’s declaration get washed away by the tide.

So, where to next?  You tell me – I’ve applied to be on First Dates twice, but so far they seem immune to my hilarious application and two year old picture. I do love watching First Dates, because the point at which the date usually implodes is when the bill arrives. There also seems to be an unwritten rule about ordering a pudding that you just have to share before being friend-zoned in the post date interview.

A lesson to learn – if you insist on splitting the bill, then isn’t it nicer to say: ‘Let’s treat each other”, rather then “Are you ok to go Dutch?” whilst the other person’s stomach sinks.  I am reminded of the time I was invited to lunch and watched incredulously as the man opposite me put down his £12.50 and said:  “That’s my half sorted.” I probably shouldn’t have been surprised, but as I still live in hope of chivalry,  and didn’t have a stack of pound coins on me to pay my exact share, I was.  However, I didn’t stick around long enough to find out if he walked on the outside of the pavement.

So, how are things next year going to be different?  Who knows, maybe I’ll appear on First Dates, make some woefully bad double entendres and not mind if I have to pay half the bill, because that’s life.  Then again, maybe I won’t. But in the spirit of change, I have had a fringe cut in (try it, it takes years off you apparently) – and you know what they say: A woman who changes her hair is about to change her life.

Who knows what 2017 will bring? I’ll keep you posted.  Happy New Year, and as George Michael eloquently put it – time for One More Try.