In early summer, I realised good 35mm film scanners were disappearing from the market. I bought one whilst I still could. Now, I’m rescanning my old photos, and have posted a number of them. That project is only just starting.

Finally, at the height of summer, I started to refactor my website. It’s now mobile friendly, using hand–coded HTML5. This project, at least, is in its final stages.

Over summer, we continued to sell prints at Konscht am Gronn. It covers its costs, and a little, so I find myself being paid to laze around by the river in the summer sun.

My employers kindly paid for me to take some intensive Luxembourgish language courses, so I can now cough and splutter in vaguely understandable way in four foreign (to me) languages. My partner continues to improve her English, although she took no course this year.

My partner mentioned in August that, oh, by the way, we’re moving. We spent a couple of months searching, found something, put an offer in, got accepted, and moved in at the end of October. Luxembourg city had been a great home for three years, but we chose a change of scenery. We bought a lovely little property not too far from Ramsey (not the Cambridgeshire Ramsey, but the Ramsey well south of Gagarin). It’s great; when we wander outside it’s as though the Floyd were there, playing just for us. I really must ask them to stop, though: they’re scaring the soup dragons.

The only problem is the place is covered in clues. I suspect they come from the secret military base, which I’m not supposed to mention is down the lane in Koch. If those idiots tidied up after themselves, and made it slightly less obvious they were there, I might be a little more circumspect.

At least, that’s how it feels, new to this old steel town, full of partially demolished foundries, mines, and other abandoned industrial sites. It’s not depressed, there’s a great deal of investment and reconstruction taking place, but the industrial history offers an interesting contrast to Luxembourg city’s military history and current international significance.

This move bought commuting back into my life: an hour each way a day wasted. Well, not entirely wasted, I listen to podcasts and the like. All the same, for that time on the line it’s not only not possible to produce anything, but the sardinic (yup, sardinic, not sardonic) feel of the commute contradicts constructive creation for the rest of the day—even recalling it ruins sentences, as you’ve just read. I find I spend those joyous work–time hours fighting the malingering train–line flu.

Anyway, enough of this. We wish everyone a happy New Year, &, as always, the opportunity to earn the hangover without suffering it.