The Hub, Spud and I will be spending New Year’s Eve watching a movie here in Stockport. We will sing Auld Lang Syne at midnight, drink a toast, then chuck Spud out of the house so he can First Foot us. Tory Boy is at a party somewhere in Lancaster, and will probably phone us just after twelve. And that’s the extent of our celebrations. I can’t even blame it on being parents because we’ve never made a big deal of New Year, apart from one many moons ago, when we were over here in the UK on holiday from South Africa, and went to the Brother-in-Law’s (see photo); and another in 1994 when we had family staying with us in SA, and we hosted a karaoke party. We had people coming from all over and it was the height of summer, so extraneous rellies pitched their tent in our garden; and a nephew slept in the bakkie (a pick-up truck with a lid). The most memorable thing about that party was not the discovery that I have to be pretty tipsy to get up and sing, and then I’ll bash you about the face with the mike before I’ll hand it over; but the next morning, when a cousin, his wife and two toddlers found themselves eating tent canvas for breakfast, our Dobermann having chewed the guy ropes in the night.
I wish you and yours a very happy New Year: may your cupboards be full, your newspapers report only good news, and your credit have no crunch.
Happy New Year!