Here we are in 2009, prepared to deal with anything the year may chuck at us, as long as it isn't a brick.
Christmas, and indeed the New Year celebrations, went down better than might have been expected in the Madmum Clan.
We left off with a dilemma - did my parents not want me around for Christmas Day, were they trying to give me the chance to go off with pals, or was it something else?
That something else, of course, was exactly where son Matt would be for the festivities. There is no way you could have him and Grambo, my dad, in the same room. In the same country is just about safe enough.
Well, it turned out that Matt had made his own arrangements (big sigh of relief there) and that my parents were praying I would come for Christmas at the seaside.
A stray nephew was already on their list of guests and they thought it might be better to have someone within 50 years of his age present.
As for Matt, he actually insisted on a Christmas Eve meet up, which turned out to be him handing over a gift and the usual syrupy card to his dearest mother.
It's amazing that amongst all the things he forgets, Christmas and birthday pressies always turn up. If only he could also remember that hitting me leads to getting chucked out of his home, usually followed by a police car providing a ride to the nearest cell.
And so we met up, in the dark, just 100 yards from his skunk dealer's home. No, I am not that stupid. I was in the car and wound down the window four inches.
He posted the present (which turned out to be moisturising cream and bath oil) through the gap, followed by the large card. I thanked him and, since I had nothing to post out the other way, looked in my purse and then handed over £40 to see him over Christmas.
Then I drove off in the direction of Madmum's Cottage to pack up the things I'd need for the seaside.
And I had this thought on the way, which I now share with you.
"This is a ridiculous way to live."
I also thought: "I wonder what shop he nicked that present from?" As this was a pointless and sidetracking one-way debate, I went back to dealing with the farcical reality.
Very shortly I would drive to my parents, and, if they asked, deny giving any money to The Lost Boy. Nor would I be able to explain that I still dance to his tune sometimes, simply because it keeps his focus away from them.
On my return Matt called up, thanking me for the £40. Now he wanted the money his Nanna would have given me to pass on to him for Christmas. I told him there was none, he started shouting, so I switched off the phone.
This year, things must really change.