Good riddance to you. Like all the worst salesmen, you promised so much while ultimately delivering so little. You raced off the blocks at the stroke of midnight last December 31st on a 10th floor balcony in Krakow. You even heralded a new year with pyrotechnics the likes of which I saw only once before over the Sydney Harbour Bridge during headier times. You were so presumptuous about how swimmingly the rest of the year would go that you exploded into life in an 1812 Overture by sending a chaotic crescendo of fireworks in a great ring around Poland’s southern capital.

It boded so well for the year to come. Despite the January rain, signs were green that ’24 would ripen into a vintage. You gave me late January in Italy. O Italy, si bella e perduta. You followed that little boon by gifting me February on Brazil’s emerald coast, March in the otherworldly beauty of the Atacama desert, and April where Eve’s apple fell, right in the heart of Rio. But that was where the year peaked, before spring hadn’t even had the chance to spring.

You made it hard on me after that. I’m convinced your ultimate aim was to humble me. Is that because I returned to the place whose welcome I had long outstayed? You tamped down my hopes in one disappointment after the other; too long a rap sheet even to mention. Or maybe you were teaching me a lesson that when it comes to little lost souls, they can’t always get what they want but if they try sometimes they might find they get what they need. You taught me that life doesn’t always go our way, but if we hold on for long enough with our pleading hand outstretched it probably will pour us a cup of kindness, mainly out of pity for our unwavering stoicism. So good riddance to you, but not without a begrudging thanks for staying true to your unpredictable self. Everything is as it has to be, and when contextualised by subsequent events even duds like 2024 will start to unravel the mystery of why they had to act so mean.

I have a feeling that you were a spiteful bitch to many a poor soul. You thwarted many a dream while compounding many a misery. And hey, while you were putting the squeeze on many of us, you also managed to serve up a dull summer marred by clouds. At least you did your damage at a brisk pace. You raced through yourself, burned your candle from both ends with a ferocity even faster than the year you buried. You were a bull in china shop minus the valuable crockery, but not minus the awful sound of shattering plates.

So, there it is. I won’t miss you unless your replacement turns out to tread still harder on my dreams. But given how salutary a lesson you delivered, for the sake of harmony 2025 really needs to play good cop to your bad. When I look at the wider world with a cold and hard stare, the augurs don’t look great for times ahead. The view out the window on day one of 2025 is hardly inspiring. A hard rain is already fallin’, and I’m thinking it can only get better.

24? What kind of number is that, anyway? Divisible by 12, 8, 6, 4, 3, 2, 1, and itself. Broken down by a host of lesser numbers, it’s impossible to predict which way you’ll go and with whom you’ll decide to sub-divide. From the end of the first quarter of your ignominious year, you chose rather selfishly to divide into yourself, but instead of the wholeness of 1, you left me with less than that. Come on, maybe you were mean because we deserved it with our collective stupidity, a flirtation with human disaster that shows no sign of abatement. But please spare the individuals among us who just want you gone and your successor to show a little clemency and a lot of succour to guide us along on our life’s journey. ’25 is only divisible by 5, 1 and itself, so surely cannot go off the rails like ’24. I’m banking on the new year multiplying by 4 to give me the perfect 100, but perhaps a little overly optimistic.

In case you didn’t hear it the first time around, good riddance and don’t come back any time soon. Here’s a parting shot: we can only hope and pray that in 364 days from now our resolutions don’t involve pining nostalgically for you. For that will surely mean that the year to come has been even more of an eventual let down. Keep wearing that epitaph, the year to remember for mostly the wrong reasons. When all is said and done, at least you left me with my health intact, and, well, you did show me the Atacama desert. Okay, granted. You were a mean bastard and refused to show me the way ahead, but in your defence at least you showed me emphatically where not to go, And, more indirectly, how to call upon the power of grace to let go of the things not meant for me, even though I remain puzzled as to what is.