New Year’s eve is like every other night; there is no pause in the march of the universe, no breathless moment of silence among created things that the passage of another twelve months may be noted; and yet no man has quite the same thoughts this evening that come with the coming of darkness on other nights. ~Hamilton Wright Mabie
I should state, before I start, I mean romantic in a fanciful and unrealistic sense rather than romantic mushy lovey dovey way. My new year has been giving me the giggles, it really was completely improbable and extravagant, and all in all if I had read it in a book I would have thought it completely fantastical. Usually, in my life the whole fictional, imaginative and unreal escapes me unless I choose to see it or put it there, which absurdly I have become quite competent at. This New Year’s eve, however, some omnipotent being saw fit to employ themselves in writing a chapter for me.
It started off at lunch with sangria and some old friends; we bar hopped in Birmingham, demanding our chosen beverage in every bar and to our astonishment we were accommodated. We had chosen a ludicrous drink to enjoy, who in their right mine asks for Sangria in winter or for that matter on New Year’s Eve? Apparently my author thought that a summer drink at New Years would be important. Perhaps this year the great love of my life will buy me sangria and the flood of happy memories will mean I hold my tongue long enough for him not to flee with a crushed ego. I had to leave early, to dash home for a change of wardrobe that I didn’t really have time for and pack a bag and do my makeup. Of course, here the writer turned me into a superwoman who could do a thousand things at once; I was barely even late and did it so charmingly I even despised myself as the main character for being so cool and collected about it.
By 8 pm we were in a town in the middle of nowhere, I should say a tiny town of no importance other than a bridge (admittedly over a very large river) my only purpose in being there were my friends. The author, however, saw this town as a menagerie of colourful characters (mostly farmers) and some family member thrown in to add a little drama to my desperate attempt to appear sober. I engaged in conversations in the beer gardens (my author fixed unseasonable mild weather) about books, art and all my favourite things; everyone was so obliging and whimsical I wondered where all these fabulous people had been hiding their wit all year!
At midnight a thousand people spilled out into the main high street to count down to midnight beneath a clock that didn’t work. Why? Why would the council not fix the clock after years and years of this tradition taking place? Here the author was just being clever, knowing that so few of us have a chance to count down the year twice and to get two New Year Kisses! I was just definitely being spoilt. All around our rag tag of 20 or so, people were counting and cheering at different times, it was hysterical, it was wonderful. The highlight of the year thus far? Hugging a policeman on duty and wishing him a good new year. Only a writer could save me from getting arrested, by walking me up to the only good natured copper on the beat.
I tumbled into bed at 4 am; after lolloping home holding tightly on to my brave friends all of us thinking the world would spin so fast we would fall off it. I reassured a friend that even if he believed he had achieved nothing in 6 years, he had actually accomplished much in the way of friendships, with the clarity that only a writer who has spent hours perfecting the prose could. I also think my author is one for an idealistic tableau as I went to sleep with the sound of birds and woke up to the sound of church bells.
My author, did not see fit to relieve me of feeling rough but was more charitable with my hangover than that of my supporting characters who could barely function. New Year’s day was spent playing board games that had not seen the light of day in 10 years. We gathered around a large table with friends and family, consuming more alcohol than the previous night should have allowed with even better conversation than should have been present.
In my head I keep questioning whether it all really happened and if someone is about to write the next chapter can I fast talk them in to making me lose weight,or that I just don’t mind the way I way I look in photos. Oooooh and I quite like happiness but I suppose I could resolve to do that on my own but I feel if my life has become a novel it would be much less demanding and I would be guarantee a happy ending, or at least a year that matched my New Year that felt to me like my birthday, Christmas and a summer holiday all in one.
By the way Happy New Year!!