I have a mobile phone. After decades of studiously avoiding the things, my oldest girlfriend bought me one for Christmas. It’s an elegant-looking object, with curious abilities – images that move as you move the screen, and so on. I have yet to register a number; I’m not sure I can handle the commitment. We address each other with masked interest and not a little trepidation. Can I handle it? Do I really need one? The really exciting news is that it also takes photographs, which means that I am – at long last – able to upload images to Instagram. This is mad fun, as I have always loved taking photographs. For about two and a half minutes in my youth, I was an actual photojournalist – no war zones, just authors coughing over vodka in dim rooms whilst pontificating about the death of art – but then my Nikon broke and I had no money to get a new one and so that all went to hell in a handbasket. Clearly not my destiny. It was easier to intently focus on my interviewee and get someone with significantly greater technical finesse and a refined eye to shoot the images. But now that I have an Instagram account, anything is possible. Who knows, I may even actually leave the house. Live on the wild side, carpe diem: all that. So do follow my account here. Oh, and I’ve updated my gallery, too. This year feels like a year of new beginnings, full and fresh and fragrant – and, like all roses, not without the occasional prick.