Ah, New Year approacheth.
I’ll gloss over Christmas which passed in the usual flurry of wrapping paper, family rows and intense materialistic disappointment (how many drawers do people think I own? I cannot line any more drawers. There are no more drawers. Should anyone have a drawer they feel urgently needs scenting with lavender, do get in touch. I can also do lily-of-the-valley and hyacinth.)
Seeing that written down, I suddenly realise that people may be trying to tell me something. I’ll try not to get really worried until I start receiving vaginal deodorant for Christmas. (Which reminds me - did anyone ever sack the marketing guy who came up with the brand-name ‘Vagisil’? Given a choice between asking for ‘Canesten’ or a product that couldn’t more clearly indicate to the handsome chap in the queue behind me that I require a balm for my candida problem, I’ll go for the obliquely named option every time.)
I digress.
New Year’s Eve - that wonderful evening when we all have to stay up till midnight. When the clock ticks its merry little way into a new date, a new world, a new hangover and a new dry-cleaning bill. When the dickheads down the street, not content with setting off fireworks every evening for seven nights each side of bonfire night; dust off their apparently endless supply of rockets and Catherine wheels and let rip for yet another night of Beirut-inspired jollity.
That most fabulous of occasions when we must all lock lips with somebody (anybody) the second a fat man in a Hawaiian shirt with a microphone, starts playing the Big Ben Bongs. The moment when, year in, year out, I am always in the loo – trying to find toilet roll and praying that the puddle seeping into my peep-toe stilettos is spilt mineral water and not the Cinzanno infused piss of the woman who was in the cubicle before me.
Those of you blessed to be British (and therefore in possession of the level of sarcasm required to laugh about that comment) will also be looking forward to the appearance of that other great holiday character, second only to Santa, that little gnome who brings us annual NYE cheer, every year. Whether we like it or not.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen. Only a few more sleeps to go and Jools Holland will once again squawk his way back onto our television.
I’ll gloss over Christmas which passed in the usual flurry of wrapping paper, family rows and intense materialistic disappointment (how many drawers do people think I own? I cannot line any more drawers. There are no more drawers. Should anyone have a drawer they feel urgently needs scenting with lavender, do get in touch. I can also do lily-of-the-valley and hyacinth.)
Seeing that written down, I suddenly realise that people may be trying to tell me something. I’ll try not to get really worried until I start receiving vaginal deodorant for Christmas. (Which reminds me - did anyone ever sack the marketing guy who came up with the brand-name ‘Vagisil’? Given a choice between asking for ‘Canesten’ or a product that couldn’t more clearly indicate to the handsome chap in the queue behind me that I require a balm for my candida problem, I’ll go for the obliquely named option every time.)
I digress.
New Year’s Eve - that wonderful evening when we all have to stay up till midnight. When the clock ticks its merry little way into a new date, a new world, a new hangover and a new dry-cleaning bill. When the dickheads down the street, not content with setting off fireworks every evening for seven nights each side of bonfire night; dust off their apparently endless supply of rockets and Catherine wheels and let rip for yet another night of Beirut-inspired jollity.
That most fabulous of occasions when we must all lock lips with somebody (anybody) the second a fat man in a Hawaiian shirt with a microphone, starts playing the Big Ben Bongs. The moment when, year in, year out, I am always in the loo – trying to find toilet roll and praying that the puddle seeping into my peep-toe stilettos is spilt mineral water and not the Cinzanno infused piss of the woman who was in the cubicle before me.
Those of you blessed to be British (and therefore in possession of the level of sarcasm required to laugh about that comment) will also be looking forward to the appearance of that other great holiday character, second only to Santa, that little gnome who brings us annual NYE cheer, every year. Whether we like it or not.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen. Only a few more sleeps to go and Jools Holland will once again squawk his way back onto our television.
My excited anticipation is killing me.
In fact, I am so over-stimulated by the idea of fireworks and treble-fare-taxi-cabs and over-priced drinks and Jools-Bloody-Holland, that I've decided to still my thumping heart and for health reasons, sit-out New Year’s Eve. Someone else can go into bat for me. I’m on the bench. I’m taking my ball back in. I’m hibernating.
If anyone wants me (and I'm realistic, it's unlikely) I shall be in bed, in a flanellette nightie, reading a book and congratulating myself on not having to shave my legs.
Just wake me up when it’s time for the Easter Bunny.
In fact, I am so over-stimulated by the idea of fireworks and treble-fare-taxi-cabs and over-priced drinks and Jools-Bloody-Holland, that I've decided to still my thumping heart and for health reasons, sit-out New Year’s Eve. Someone else can go into bat for me. I’m on the bench. I’m taking my ball back in. I’m hibernating.
If anyone wants me (and I'm realistic, it's unlikely) I shall be in bed, in a flanellette nightie, reading a book and congratulating myself on not having to shave my legs.
Just wake me up when it’s time for the Easter Bunny.
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