A COLD wind is sweeping through the house. But it doesn’t originate from any point on the map, unless there is a cardinal direction on the compass called ‘CHANGE’. Yes, a howling Change-rly gale is whirling, leaving a trail of neatness in its wake.

MY car doesn’t have a complicated dashboard. It gives very little feedback or nothing involving the word ‘Diagnostics’ or “Realtime Information”. “Get petrol” or “The key is on”, it mutters gruffly from time to time. Except today.

THE last refuge of the columnist/scoundrel — predictions for the following year — is back. Shur, where would you be without it? “Better off”, says you.

THE letterbox clanks. As is always the case, I gallop downstairs to see what the post brings. This, I think, is a feature of the self-employed. The lack of a buzzing office atmosphere means that the postman’s arrival is a big deal. What will today bring? Maybe I’ve finally won the million euro in the Prize Bonds?

Despite all the warnings, some of you will be unable to resist. Drink may have been taken, endorphins coursing in your veins, inhibitions lost. Before you know it, as your colleagues at the Christmas party stand nearby, aghast, you are dancing.

THE word of 2014 is ‘vape’. It refers to electronic cigarettes, which gradually spread this year. Perhaps you were talking to someone and, suddenly, they made a movement towards their mouth.

Go on admit it. You’ve said it. Maybe you were watching the news and the Dáil was in uproar.

Now that I’m self-employed, I miss it: the work email that used to arrive like a cheery relief in the middle of more ominous subject lines. After “Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Issues” and before “Re: Re: Re: Who else knows?”, it popped in:“The Sports and Social Club Invites you to the ... CHRISTMAS PARTAE!“

THE Dublin-Cork train hadn’t left the station long when the Irish Rail announcer said that the WiFi was broken. He didn’t say the Wifi was broken. He said the WiFi was offline for the duration of the trip.

IT’S a measure of the success of the radio advertisement that I’m mentioning it at all. You know the one: “Dear 30-year old me.” The pensions ad. How much the man in the ad annoys me says more about my insecurities about the future and my beard than anything else.