How was it for you?

So, that's it for another year. The tinsel is tired, the compost overflowing with uneaten sprouts, the balloons popped.

I hope you all enjoyed the festival you needed. If eating, drinking and being merry is your thing - then I hope you are sated. If settling in a corner by the fire in glorious silence, knowing the shops are closed and the phone won't ring, is what floats your boat - then I hope no doorbells rang for you.

Me - I had the best of both worlds. On some days my walls echoes with the laughter of grandchildren (I shouldn't be surprised that people so small can make so much noise); and on others I sat with a book and let the hours swim by.

And so to 2014. The shiver of excitement that comes with a New Year. The days will get longer (promise); the birds will sing again; the snowdrops will bloom and we'll look for catkins.

Some of you will make resolutions - not me. I can't see the point of setting myself up to fail. I can do that easily enough without the excuse of the date. If you're promising yourselves a slimmer, fitter body by the time the clocks go forward - the very best of luck.

For it is a time of year for looking forward - and as you know, I have travels to look forward to. But before I head for the airport I shall think, for a while, about those who cannot - for whatever reason - share my excitement. It can be a painful time of year - for many reasons, and I won't speculate about yours. For those of you weeping into your cocoa, I hope that 2014 takes the shape you need it to. That the lonely will find comfort, that the needy will find succour, and the beleaguered will find peace.

I raise a glass to you all.

ps. I've had a rather wonderful start to the year - I submitted Over the Hill to a competition so long ago I'd almost forgotten, and then this happened: click here! So I might eat cake as I raise my glass to you!

We can't all be 'best-selling writers'

Next time you're in a bookshop, scan the shelves and count just how many 'best selling authors' or 'Number one best sellers' or 'prizewinning writers' there are.

Some are genuine - we can all check books in line for major prizes. But I wonder about the book claiming to be longlisted in a competition held by an obscure seaside town. And as for 'New York Times Bestseller' - how can we check that? Or did someone buy 100 copies of his or her own book in a day and earned it that way?

If you're a twitterer, or dip into Facebook from time to time - have a look at a profile or ten. Every second author is 'prizewinning' or 'best-selling' ...

It's impossible. For every book that is a 'best-seller' there has to be thousands (or more) that do fairly well but don't rock the boat. For every 'prizewinner' are all the writers who are also-rans. I don't blame anyone not including 'submitted to the Outer Mongolian prize for genre fiction but didn't get anywhere' in gold letters above the title. Or leaving off 'made it into the top 100 on Amazon for half an hour.'

How do you react to this? I respond by not believing anyone who claims any status or award (unless it's one of the big ones). It smacks of self-aggrandisement and I want to sit these writers down and remind them that they eat and sleep like the rest of us. They've written the best book they could - it's enough to be proud of that.

Or maybe they are being disingenuous - they are the best-selling writer in their family? Or their town? Or have won a prize in the short-stories-about-a-slug contest?

Pah, they write and hope and are elated one minute and disappointed the next, just like the rest of us.

(Though you might like to know that I'm the best-selling travel writer in the street where I live ...)