It was a very good year

hen I was 17, my high school French teacher, Dana Danforth, a mentor in style, wit ("If you can't laugh at life, you're fucked.") and facial hair, turned me away from Sinatra before I'd even heard The Voice.

When I was 21, the Smoothest Man Alive, Jiorgis Kritsotakis, introduced me to Puccini (Bergonzi, Tebaldi & Serafin; Callas, De Stefano & De Sabata), Lebanese women, Greek slang and Old Blue Eyes in St Andrews.

And now, at 35, I can say, hell, I can bellow, "It was a very good year."

For it has been a rather good year. Two series of children's books. Three screenplays. New friends in new towns; old friends in old towns; new friends in old towns. Unfinished conversations picked up. The start of a grant writing career. A November moustache. A glass of Brunello on the house. Three welcome homes in three different places.

No, not every bottle poured sweet and clear. The dregs of the past two vintages continue to give this year's a bittersweet finish, but now they are more minor flavor notes, not skunked cans of beer.

More importantly, this is the year I cleared my throat; the year I danced with strangers; the year I filled out.

And yes, Frank, it was also a good year for small town, city and blue-blooded girls...