Any chance of resetting the Grim Reaper sat-nav in ’17?

Oh 2017 thank God you’re here, says Suzanne Harrington. 

It’s not like we are expecting you to be spectacular, or even much fun, but so long as you’re not a surreal 12-month nightmare with special effects by the Grim Reaper, I think we’ll be fine. I mean, George Michael on Christmas Day. That was a bit harsh, even by 2016’s pitiless standards.

Just typing the digits 2 0 1 and 6 is making me sweat. Although in 2016, everything has been making me sweat, because January took not just David Bowie, but also my ovaries. A health false alarm catapulted me from spring chicken to menopausal boiler at the start of the year, draining me of lady hormones and placing the possibility of growing a beard into plausible reality. I have subsequently spent 2016 bursting into flames while telling anyone who will listen that I am way too young for hot flushes. Bowie died just days after my first emergency ambulance dash to hospital.

The second nee-naw-nee-naw blue flashing lights moment happened just after Prince died. The first surgery had been botched, so a major repair op was needed, which was, in keeping with 2016’s hellish theme, also botched, and for a moment it looked like I might be joining Bowie and Prince behind the celestial velvet ropes. But my name must not have been on the guest list, because, instead of croaking, I woke up in intensive care. Outside my hospital window Britain contrived to shoot itself in the head by voting Brexit.

As political commentators and obituary writers earned overtime, it became clear that it was not just me having a tricky year, which effectively began in late 2015 when Lemmy died and my partner, whom I believed to be the love of my life, dumped me by text. BY TEXT. By actual text.

Famous people were dropping dead like celebrity flies as the forces of darkness gathered. Hot flushes and a broken heart were the least of it, as I recovered from my own almost death. Across the ocean, an orange creature was taking over America.

My hair fell out. 2016 was making me go bald, as I stood ankle deep in my own telogen effluvium, clumps of hair cascading floor-wards. Which, as you can imagine, did wonders for my I’m–too–young–for–this–shit stress-triggered hot flushes. Meanwhile, Hilda Ogden and Pete Burns died. And then, just when things seem to be at peak weirdness, it got weirder still — overnight we had something called President elect Trump.

So welcome in, 2017. We’re glad you’re here. Be gentle with us. On a personal note, thanks for the slow hair regrowth, and the new love affair. How would you feel about world peace, global conflict resolution, an end to people fleeing war? No? Well, how about resetting the Grim Reaper’s sat-nav, perhaps redirecting it towards the White House? That would be great, 2017 — to get on side early, redress the balance. Don’t make my hair fall out again. Cheers.