Our New Year

It happens every year.
Mr PE gets back from the pub at about 10:30 declaring that he couldn’t possibly drink another drop. I get excited because that means I can drink the other half bottle of wine I had been saving for him.
Then about ten minutes after Jools Holland has started. One or other of us declares that they can never decide if Jools is quite quirky and cool or a just a pretentious git. For a while we decide that not only is he quite cool but he is an extremely talented musician. Ten minutes later when all that self-satisfied buddy buddy musician stuff starts getting on our nerves, we decide that he is too smug for our liking and Mr PE starts irritating me by flicking channels (one of my pet hates) Last night it was a strange mixture of Jools Holland on BBC2 Natasha Kaplinski on BBC1 and The Wicker Man on ITV. After most of a bottle of wine it all blurs into one and suddenly it is to an Eric Clapton soundtrack that Natasha Kaplinski comes up over that hill shouting ‘Oh Jesus Christ No!’ (Purple Elephant lingers on that thought for a moment)
Now where was I? Oh yes I then I ask if it’s time for bed yet. Mr PE insists that there’s only 10 minutes left of 2004 because the clock behind Jools Holland says so. I roll my eyes and remind him that we fall for this every year, for that is a cardboard clock set permanently at 11.50. He proves that it does work by flicking over to Ceefax and showing me that it is in fact 11:50, I insist that it’s just coincidence and do not win the argument until 11:55 when the fake clock has not yet budged.
I then pour us both some Kumala, and Mr PE refuses point blank to even touch his glass so at midnight I hold one in each hand and clunk them together by myself. Whilst the fireworks are banging and the drunks are singing Auld Lang Syne Mr PE whinges about New Years celebrations being fake and overrated. I reply that quite the contrary I actually prefer New Years over Christmas. To which he gives his standard reply,
‘What on earth for?’
And so today I broke with tradition and instead of saying ‘I just do!’ I descended into the following monologue;
‘I think it’s because on New Years Eve a little fountain of optimism springs out from all that bitter cynicism that builds up throughout the year and however hard I try I cannot put it too rest. I cannot help but to hope that this year I will be a better mother, wife, daughter, friend or whatever and that maybe I might just realise my dreams despite the fact that half the time I’m not even sure what those dreams are.
For this one night of the year I want to believe that everything is going to be different just because we can change that last digit of the date in our chequebooks. I want Big Ben to chime and for the air to change and for me to spring up from my seat with the motivation to do everything I’ve ever wanted. I want pollution to lift, the ozone to mend and for trees to be planted. I want all those loved ones in Asia to come floating back on the sea, wiping their brows and saying ‘Wow! What an adventure that was!’ I want all this to happen because it’s 2005 now.
Just for this one night I don’t want to think about the fact that in exactly one year’s time I’m going to be sitting on the same rickety sofa, in the same flat, watching the same crap on the same TV and even having the same arguments about clocks, Jools Holland and Natasha freakin’ Kaplinski.’
At which point I nudge my snoring husband and declare,
‘Oi! I was talking to you.’
To which he turns over and mumbles
‘Yes, yes I know. You ‘Just do!’ Right?’
‘Yes. ‘I just do!’ Shall we go to bed then?’
‘Mmm bed. Sounds good! I'll be up in a minute.'
To which I leave him snoring on the sofa.