There is an empty space on my kitchen wall – this year, for the first time since records began, we have nothing to replace the Minecraft calendar that was consigned to the recycling bin on January 1.
Not so long ago, we were awash with ’em. Handmade calendars used to fly home from school every December, colourful collages of autumn leaves, felt-tipped sunshines and beaming snowmen.
They always had those tiny stamp-sized page-to-a month calendars stuck on the bottom, the kind of things only schools have access to, like coloured pipe cleaners and stacks of flat blue paper towels with zero absorption ability.
More recently, they have been big, glossy numbers, showcasing Doctor Who and irritating perky Clara. For two exciting years we had fortune telling calendars, that actually spoke when you pressed a button, like those seaside booths you don’t get any more (just how old am I??).
I know phones have made calendars, like watches and family life, redundant, but there is nothing like circling a date with a big fat marker pen and writing ‘my awesome birthday’ on it.
I’ve kept the fortune telling ones, in the hope that sooner or later all the dates will match up again, even if the year is wrong. No idea how to work out when that will be. I’d need a calendar in order to do that.