I was going to do a whole, portentous This Was The Year That number. I was going to talk of losing my dog and gaining my mare, of the unexpected love for Mr Stanley, of missing my dad; all boilerplate end of year emotional manipulation, in other words.
But bugger that for a game of soldiers. I’ve just got back from reeling practice and I’ve got to wrangle my hair and put my eyeshadow on. We are actually having a party. We never have parties, and certainly never reeling parties. But tonight we shall be doing the 51st, Aberdonian style. (Look it up; it has the most moving genesis of any Scottish dance.)
I shall not, you will be glad to hear, be wearing a big pouffy dress and a tartan sash. I’m going for a draped, faintly 1942-ish black and white number, and a lot of fire engine red lipstick. And possibly kinky boots.
I hope that, wherever you are, you have a properly happy New Year’s Eve. I hope you drink too much and make rash statements and grandiose gestures and bad jokes. I hope you are merry and blithe. You are a bloody wonderful bunch of Dear Readers, and I could not be without you.
Pictures today are of my precious herd:
Happy New Year.