Farewell, at long last, to 2020. See ya, don’t let the door hit you on the way out, don’t call us, we won’t call you.

What a year it was. When we marked the tenth anniversary of the Pike River tragedy, I recalled that I was on-air on Radio New Zealand when the news broke of the second explosion. It still feels far closer in time than January of this year does.

I can only hope that the light at the end of the tunnel isn’t an oncoming train, or the onset of a migraine.

I began 2020 with great plans, and great excitement. I was quitting my steady, rewarding, well-paid job in television to take a dream five-week international holiday, ticking several lingering items off my bucket list, before diving back into the world of freelance writing and performance. D-Day for the start of this new chapter was to be March 10th.

Eleven days later the sky fell in. Thanks for the heads-up, Chicken Little.

In a matter of hours, my travel plans had evaporated into the same hole that my work was already circling.

So as this annus horribilis draws to a close, I can only hope that the light at the end of the tunnel isn’t an oncoming train, or the onset of a migraine.

There are positive signs. On January 20th, the United States should get a new president. I say should because after four years of Donald Trump, and twelve months of whatever the hell just happened, I’ll believe it when it happens, and not a second before. I know it won’t change much, but just having someone who doesn’t threaten to destroy life as we know it every time he hits “send” on a 3am tweet sitting in the Oval Office will make me sleep better at night.

We might be on the road to a COVID vaccine. Modern medicine is a much-maligned miracle, but as long as it can overcome modern social media maybe it can convince enough people to take their shots so that we can start forcing this virus into retreat. That might open the world to us again, bubble by bubble, so that we can revisit friends, family and favourite haunts in more than just nostalgic dreams and morose scrolls through photo files.

One can only dream of a world in which every workday is pants optional.

Here in New Zealand, we do know who our government will be. As long as they keep Dr Bloomfield on side, keep listening to the experts ahead of the armchair economists, and don’t panic, I trust them to see us through another term. One suggestion though - if they wanted to offer the wage subsidy again, but without the lockdown bit, I reckon we could all use some paid time off work when we’re actually allowed to do something with it.

Speaking of work, I’m fascinated to see how many of the forced changes of 2020 stick. Now that we know that many of us can work from home, meet online and cut back on our personal interactions without the entire fabric of society ripping asunder, maybe we can finally shake off our Victorian work ethic where the hours you’re seen to be at your desk matter more than what comes off of it, and hard work is counted by the level of stress you endure rather than the level of production you achieve. One can only dream of a world in which every workday is pants optional.

If there’s one positive outcome from 2020, it might be that, for the first time in generations, we have shared in a universal experience. Say what you want about the last year, but 2020 didn’t discriminate; it royally screwed with all of us. Going forward, let’s not forget that.

And if 2021 tries anything stupid, let’s all beat up on it together.