(Another entry from the pit of my hard drive, not much point saving it until next year…)
I am not a fan of celebrating this ‘man-made’ beginning. I’ve never been a fan of the impromptu shingdig or anything like that. Quite frankly I simply treat it as a normal evening and go to bed, for preference to sleep through the inane festivities that will surround the witching hour.
Having said this, even I will admit that New Year’s Eve is my second favourite day of the year. A dichotomy perhaps, but it comes down to one simple thing. Fireworks (have you guessed what my favourite day of the year is… it’s a UK only one, if that narrows it down) only the fireworks.
It used to be that we watched ‘Scrooged’ on New Years Eve (though why one can only guess…and if they figure it out let me know? I’ve been curious for years), Mom would let us stay up in our sleeping bags on the couch, where inevitably we would get more ‘bleary-eyed’ and grouchy as the evening wore on. Yet we were determined to see this mystical adult celebration through.
‘Scrooged’ did mean the requisite bums in the air, head in the cushions photograph pose through sheer fear when Marley appears in Bill Murray’s office, and disgust when the mouse pushes the golf ball out of the back of his head.
This particulary entry is somewhat like Victoria Woods commentary on her ‘Ballad of Freda and Barry’ it’s ostensibly about her ‘deep seated interest in the act of physical love making…it’s very short’
My point being is that my interest in New Year is also remarkably short.
So saying, thank you very much and good night!