Well, readers, this is to be my last ever DOADR entry. After a good ten minutes consideration, I've decided 'tis time to move on to pastures new. This has nothing to do with the fact that my social life is hectic for the next three weeks and I really couldn't be arsed writing with a constant hangover. Nope, it's time for a fresh start. As the year draws to a close, so should this blog.
The truth is, I am a journalist and I should be writing about things that journalists write about: current affairs, climate change, wanker bankers, Jordan's attacks on Peter's manhood, that sort of thing. The Boyfriend feigned support when I told him of this change in direction and tried not to react when I suggested I start with Darling's windfall tax on bonuses in the City. OK, so I'm no Robert Peston, but I'm confident I can venture an informed opinion on most subjects, albeit formed from my own unique understanding of the subject in question.
There is also a glaringly obvious reason why DOADR has run its course. I am no longer a receptionist, nor am I particularly disgruntled. When I started this diary, six months ago, I was pushing 26 and my career looked about as promising as all 192 countries attending the Climate Conference in Copenhagen this week, reaching a unilateral agreement. See – I do know my stuff. (It is Copenhagen, right?)
I'm pleased to say this is no longer the case. Yes, I am currently working for a magazine about caravans (oops, did I just let my anonymity slip?) but I have to admit, I really enjoy what I do. I love the impassioned readers who compare motorhome prejudice to ethnic cleansing and send me videos of their grandchildren in their caravan, accompanied by wishes for a 'tender Christmas'; I love the bizarre assignments I'm sent on; I love my colleagues and I love the fact that I'm working for one of the largest and most respected magazine publishers in the UK. Most of all, I'm excited by the promise of what's to come.
This blog has been wonderfully indulgent and I have been both surprised and touched that anyone other than my mum finds the minutiae of my life even vaguely interesting. An even bigger surprise, has been the readership itself. I had expected my girlfriends would follow tales of dietary angst and PMS, but not uncles, The Boyfriend's mates and my 17-year-old male cousin. One friend of The Boyfriend's, who I have long believed to be a misogynist, regularly logs on to find out what's been happening in Annie's world. I've also been told he's upset he hasn't been mentioned. Gaz, there's love. But I still think you're a chauvinist pig.
It was difficult for me, unashamed Luddite that I am, to even contemplate getting on board with blogging. I still have a Nokia 3310, send handwritten letters and left Twitter because it was all too complicated (I'm even in a Book Club for Christ's sake) and yet, this whole experience has been great fun. It was a comfort to know that, after a crappy day behind reception, I could come home and vent and someone out there would be reading. Hurrah for technological progress!
So, thanks guys. I really do appreciate the support and am glad you've enjoyed reading this. I'm still writing bar and restaurant reviews for Fluid (www.fluidfoundation.co.uk) and who knows, I may once again, re-enter the blogosphere, but instead of sharing all about my life, I'll write about yer man with the bushy brows. What's his face? You know, the one with the red briefcase who's going to tax those horrid bankers?
It'll come to me.... So, Jordan and Peter, eh?
Happy Christmas and New Year, etc.
Signing off.
Alix. I mean Annie. I mean....
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