Dear everybody, thank you. For the good feelings, even though the world’s felt ill. For  interviews, the articles, the comments, the Andrew Jolliffe this and Andrew Jolliffe that, the you-couldn’t-invent Andrew Jolliffe. Andrew Jolliffe is blushing. For welcoming me into your agencies, home offices, dessert islands, broom cupboards, wherever, even in a dressing gown, jumper and underpants, odd socks or worse. Or less. For turning a blind eye to the coffee stain on the collar, the smeary glasses and the chest hair. And for giving me presents when I get inside. A brief. A bravo. A constructive comment or sixty-five. Santa exists, and works 24/7/365. It’s official. For all the work, for not wanting it all yesterday but for not giving solitude time to erode and darken what it said. And for not letting it mulch down into cut-and-paste grey cardboard counterfeit. Well, most of it. Despite the cloud, you let it shine. Zzing. For asking how I was rather than just how goes the rewrite. For thanking me when it should be the other way round. For paying me on time. For those who haven’t, you’ve still another 10 days. For the daily pats on the back, hugs, nibbles of ears, bravos, beers and kisses on cheeks, even though they were metaphorical. They felt more than real. I raise a martini to you all. Have one with me. Cheers, everyone.  


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