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There must be 50 ways to write this blog.

For instance, I could use the same album and begin with Yesterday it was my birthday, I hang one more year on the line… Only I’d have to write it tomorrow, and I’m having a reasonably good time without my life being a mess these days.

Or I could try and fake the Glaswegian cant and start with Ay, ah’m forty-fuckin-four man… Only with my very wee bit Weegie it would be a fake even without the apologetic apostrophe.

I could also mention how when I was about 25, I honestly believed that with my lifestyle I most probably would last until 35 and most probably wouldn’t until 45. Which would leave me now with less than a year. Only it seems that short of an accident I still have all the time in the world. A lot, anyway. Comparatively. Considering.

Or mention that nowadays I eventually feel my age. Only I know that would lead to a long-winded analysis of the goods and bads of such a state of mind.

So perhaps I’d better quote another favourite song of mine: You’d be amazed at what you can achieve in a year.
 

Bàta air Loch Ceiteirein.

 
All right. What have I achieved within the last twelve months?

I managed to do what is probably the bravest thing I have accomplished ever. I moved to the country I had thought of, for a couple of decades, using the first person singular possessive pronoun. Moved here to stay.

It may be fitting to finish by paraphrasing a few lines from the same band’s recent album. It was the answer to my prayers… that’s all.

 

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