Tag Archives: New Year’s Eve

Happy New Year!

1 Jan
Auld Lang Syne

Image via Wikipedia

 

The Hub, Spud and I have just sung Auld Lang Syne and raised a glass.  Spud let in the New Year with a lump of dog instead of coal and we are waiting for Tory Boy to ring as he always does just after midnight every year.

Happy New Year to all my blogging friends.  I hope it’s a good one!

Once In A Blue Moon

2 Jan

I’m going to write about last night’s moon even though it has aready been done by Musings, my blogging friend in Hawaii.

That was as far as I got last night before the internet went down, so now I am going to write about the night-before-last’s moon even though it has aready been done by Musings, my blogging friend in Hawaii.

When we pushed Spud out into the cold street on NYE, I noticed a really bright light shining on a car; I thought it was from a street light but it was the moon.  The sky was clearer than I’ve ever seen it in Britain and the moon was full and gorgeous.  I don’t remember seeing a full moon at New Year before, but I suppose I must have done. 

Coincidentally, when I went to bed I had the radio on and the news announcer told me it was a blue moon.  A blue moon does not refer to the colour, but the occurrence of two full moons in one month.  This happens approximately every 33 months.  The last blue moon at New Year occurred in 1990. 

I am not at all superstitious (and I never will be, touch wood), but I choose to read these blue moons as good omens: Tory Boy (a Blue by political persuasion) was born in 1990.  Manchester City play in blue; their theme tune is Blue Moon (which is how often we have won anything for as long as I’ve known the Hub.  Oh, wait; make that ‘never’).  Now that we are the richest club in the world and we have a new manager, the signs suggest that we might actually win something.  I am optimistic, to say the least.  We did think the board blew it by sacking Mark Hughes, and we were all a little blue at first, but things are looking up.

That blue moon was surely a sign that we will win a league that most people don’t care about, in a game that is barely of interest to half the world’s population.  You can see why it was foremost in my mind on New Year’s Eve – it beats having the blues over forthcoming January bills.

Moonchester, the City Mascot

Happy New Year

31 Dec

A long time ago, in a New Year's party far, far away...

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!

My Perfect Old Bag

31 Dec

I have long been in search of the perfect handbag.  It must be black; have a short and long handle, so that I can carry it down, under my arm, over my shoulder or over my chest; it must not be so big that I carry a load of junk around with me that I will never use, or so small that I can only fit in keys and a lip salve; it must have a small pocket on the outside to hold tissues, phone and lip salve; and it must be made of leather.  Blame Carole Duffy: she gave me the perfect handbag way back in 1982 and I reluctantly threw it away in 1996 when both straps cried, We can’t hold on any longerrrrrrr, and lost their grip, tipping the detritus of fourteen years onto the floor, and returning, in their last, brave act, my mother’s Boots’ nail file that I stole from her in 1985 and which I thought I had lost in 1993 – it was inside the torn lining.  The Hub had repaired the straps of my bag so many times that he would have had to sew the bag to my shoulder to keep it in service.

The bag that Carole gave me was not new, not black and did not have two sets of straps, but it was perfect.  It was made of brown leather and it had a sort of patchwork effect but not like the soft leather, differently-coloured patchwork bags that you buy as a gift for your favourite great-auntie.  It was all one colour and a sort of muddy colour at that, but it was perfect for me.  I was eighteen and still at school and Carole was nineteen and working and could afford to give away a handbag she no longer used. I had never owned a leather handbag before, just girlie plastic ones, and I was thrilled.  The pocket held my lip gloss (I still had young skin then) and my emery board, and the bag was large enough for all the crap that eighteen year old girls never go anywhere without, including Cosmopolitan and whatever book I happened to be reading at the time (no kids, see).  I loved it.  I took it out to South Africa with me; worked, married, bore two children; came back to the UK; and I would rather have parted with the boys’ father at that point, I think, than my beloved bag.  Before you start to think I am being unfair to the poor Hub, at that stage of our lives, having a marriage just like everyone else, we were the living embodiment of the old footballing joke:

Me: You love that <insert anything you like from computer to one smelly shoe to Manchester City> more than me.

The Hub: I love United more than I love you.

Fortunately, the old bag that I discarded was not the Hub and, in fact, it’s possible his desperate attempts to save it, stitching it with every type of cotton, yarn and thread he could get hold of in a vain attempt to sew holes to holes, reminded me of why I loved him in the first place.  I won’t go into all that now because we’ve had enough slop for one month and we still have to get through New Year’s Eve tomorrow, but suffice it to say that I’m glad I kept him, and he kept me.

This kind of answers the question of why my dream perfect bag is not at all like my last perfect bag: you can’t improve on perfection, but you can perfect your improvements.  Now I’ve made the Hub just how I like him (and it only took me twenty-seven years), I’m not about to replace him. 

Though I could be tempted if Brad Pitt would only shave off that ridiculous beard.

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