The New Year...that means getting seriously drunk and then all weepy while singing Auld Lang Syne and kissing total strangers who have beery breath.
There was a time when it was only if you were a total social pariah that the new year saw you at home all on your own going to bed with a hot cocoa at ten o'clock...now that seems so much more inviting than being stuffed into an over-heated bar with people you barely know and care less about while some eejit throws up all over your new shoes...
But I used to do precisely that. Not throw up...never did that. Being squashed up against a bloke reeking of Old Spice...did that. And even worse than Old Spice was Paco Rabbanne when worn by a chap who'd had his hair permed and thought it the height of fashion to wear a truly enormous gold medallion and trousers so tight they must have actually been painful...did that as well. My then boyfriend held his nose when I leaned against him...whatever is that awful smell...not your perfume surely to goodness...
When I pointed the offending person out and had to confess to have actually danced with him...briefly, mind you...boyfriend didn't let me out of his sight for the rest of the evening. And who could blame him...
We made earnest resolutions which were promptly broken...wept buckets as the church bells chimed in the new year so our mascara ran down our faces and we looked like modern day Goths...drank Snowballs...broke the heel of one stiletto shoe...sang We Shall Not Be Moved in the street...no, I didn't know why then and I still don't know why now. Then the 'pubs had finally had enough and threw the stragglers out and we did the conga up one side of town and down the other.
And we thought it great fun.
I'd get home slightly tipsy, carrying my shoes, stockings laddered, make-up smeary or non-existent, the beginnings of a beard rash from snogging a boyfriend who need to shave at least twice a day...and I'd edge into the kitchen, trying to keep as quiet as possible while filling the kettle for a hot water bottle when Mum's parrot would suddenly say 'Hello, where have you been?' in a creepy sort of voice with heavy emphasis on the 'have'.
We don't do New Year now...I haven't drawn up a neat list of resolutions for ages...I don't dance with strangers wearing medallions and probably couldn't walk in stiletto heeled shoes without breaking an ankle...now my make-up is more subtle than the layer of Max Factor pancake I used to wear and waterproof mascara means there is no need to look like a Goth...stockings are so far in the past that I'd be wondering how to put them on and a suspender belt to hold them up would have to be an xx size...
There are times when I become nostalgic for the past but celebrating New Year isn't one of those times...it can pass me by without a bother. Nowadays we're perfectly happy to go to bed and wake the next morning and put the new calendar up.
Happy New Year!