One thing this is not is a review of 2013. It was so monumentally foul a year for so many people that I'd really rather not go over it. For the first time in years I stayed up until midnight, rather in the spirit in which I've attended some funerals, to make sure the bugger was really dead.
I finished the Katie Morag jumper at about 11 o'clock the night before Christmas Eve. The knitting was smooth, but then I got an infected cut on my yarn-tensioning finger, then I trapped a nerve in my shoulder, then I started charting the yoke design and discovered just what it is we're paying designers to do, and decided knitting patterns would be cheap at four times the price.
All of which was worth it for the moment of awe-struck silence when she opened the parcel. I've hardly got it off her since, it badly needs blocking, but I think she likes it (she doesn't look terribly keen in this picture, but it was immediately before bedtime after a strenuous day of dancing, building houses, going to her imaginary school and going on one of the veryr eal bracing walks mummy insists on whatever the weather).
One of them is to blog more. The others can wait, because the lights keep flickering, we've already had one brief powercut (while I screamed "No! WHAT ABOUT SHERLOCK?"), and I'd like to get this published.