I’ve been neglecting this blog a little. I’m sorry. I imagine all 5 of my readers have probably deserted me by now, since for a so-called writer I’m being a bit rubbish at actually, you know, writing anything.

So, how about we have a story. I’m a little annoyed with myself over this particular story, to be honest, and when I originally wrote it all down (about a week ago) I never posted it because it ends on something of a downer. But never mind. We’ll try and turn it into a positive message, shall we?

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Our story starts in Los Angeles. The departure lounge at LAX, to be precise. We’d been in the USA for two months. Two months of hot weather, greasy food, Greyhound buses and madcap locals. Los Angeles was the last stop; the city we were basically too tired to bother exploring. We’d had three days in the sun doing little more than sitting in the lounge at our hostel, taking advantage of the dodgy vending machine which spat out a Budweiser when you hit the ‘Out of Order’ button.

We were ready to move on to Fiji, the next leg of our epic adventure, but before that: the departure lounge. Never a particularly inspiring place to spend time. Douglas Adams once wrote ‘it can hardly be a coincidence that no language on earth has ever produced the expression “As pretty as an airport”‘, and though he was referring to Heathrow Terminal 4, it might as well have been LAX. Airports have a soporific effect at the best of times, flavoured with just a pinch of jumpiness and paranoia, that comes from never being certain when your flight will be called.

In our case, this feeling was made even worse by the fact that a man on the next bank of plastic seats seemed to be staring at us strangely. He was in his thirties, probably, with short dark hair wearing shorts and a tee shirt. Next to him was sat a blonde woman who was also looking quizzically in our direction. Our first response was of course simply to pretend we hadn’t noticed – we’re British, after all – but this became more complicated when he stood up and walked toward us.

“Excuse me, this might sound weird, but have you two been to Atlanta recently?”

We had. Atlanta was near the start of our trip, nearly two months earlier. A sudden flash of recognition washed across my good lady’s face as she answered in the affirmative. I sat there hopelessly confused, cursing my terrible memory for names, places or people.

“Stuart and Ellie, right?” Apparently, this man didn’t share my terrible affliction.

Eventually I gained a handle on the moment. This was a British couple we’d met early on in our travels, called – for the purposes of this story, at least – Di and Jerry. We’d got on like a house on fire when we’d met them in the quirky hostel-that-used-to-be-a-brothel we’d stayed at in Atlanta, we played card games and chatted about travels. They’d just been across the US in the opposite direction to us, and had some great tips for cool places to visit.

What an astonishing coincidence, then, that we all happened to have ended up in the LAX departure lounge at the exact same moment in time. A coincidence compounded by the discovery that we were all booked on exactly the same flight. And further again when we asked what hotel they were planning on staying in when we got to Fiji and discovered that it was exactly the same place we were going.

And some 15 hours later, there we were, drinking Fiji Bitter ($1FJD a bottle) and being torn to shreds by mosquitos in a dodgy hotel by a dirty beach in the pouring rain with Di and Jerry. Besides us there were four other Brits, the obligatory Australian, and an assortment of other travelling folk, all mad enough to have ended up in Fiji in the rainy season. A few days later we parted company again as they headed for some of the smaller islands and we went on to New Zealand.

So this time round we remembered to exchange email addresses, and we kept up with them as they continued their travels, and let them know how we were getting on. We stayed in occasional contact, and shortly after we’d moved to Derby for university, an email dropped into my inbox letting me know that they’d arrived home and were now living in Buxton – in global terms, a mere pop down the shops away. It’s a small world after all!

We should get together for a drink! Or, at the very least, a coffee and a chat. Are they free on the weekend after next? Let’s catch up! Gosh what a lot has happened!

But they were busy that weekend. And we were busy the one after that. And the momentum faded and then we were having a baby, and they were finding jobs, and we were stressing over our studies. So we still kept in touch, befriended each other on Facebook and so on, but the meeting we all agreed ought to happen just never seemed to take place.

And then, Big News! They’re heading back to Australia – and this time they’re going there to live there. Come on, all of us – we really must get together for a drink before they’ve left Blighty again. How would it be to live 30 miles apart from each other for three years and still pass like ships in the night?

Yesterday, I noticed a status update on Jerry’s Facebook page. “Jerry is having his last full day in the UK, almost free!”

And then they were off, and we’d missed our chance.

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For Christmas last year (as in, 2008 – not the one that’s just past), my Brother bought me a copy of Yes Man by Danny Wallace. I thoroughly enjoyed reading that book, recommended it to anyone and everyone, and immediately declared 2009 to be the year of Positivity. I think I succeeded pretty well with that goal -probably the biggest random Yes being going to the Lib Dem conference in Bournemouth, but I also started a podcast (now the UK’s No 1 independent political podcast), released two iPhone apps and helped make something new. All told, it was a really good year.

But I do, genuinely, regret that I didn’t make that get-together happen. And I think that that, right there, is the moral of the story. The vast majority of the time, the only regrets I ever have are the things I didn’t do.

So this year, just maybe, will be the year of doing things.