I’m not at all fussed about crossing this one off the list – from experience, almost every NYE I’ve lived through has been… well, “meh”, really.
Hands-down, the best 17 minutes of the lot: ’99/’00, watching the Thames light up from end to end, from fireworks barges set between each of the bridges, while standing on Westminster Bridge with 50,000 other people. (The Before and After parts of that night were horrific, but that was good.)
But mostly it’s been about manoeuvring myself into being at the “right” place, with the “right” person, preceded by the grinding noises made by my Better Judgement trying to talk me down:
you’re being too manic, too quiet, too loud, too desperate, too needy, laughing too much, brooding too much – just … will you Please. Just. Stand. Still … right. I can’t deal with this. I’ll be outside when you need me.
And I’ve honestly never been able to definitively say whether I’d be better or worse at all that, if I was a drinker.
Actually, that’s not remotely true. I know my life would’ve been unbearably more complicated – and even more shit – if I drank.
So: here’s to A Mostly Bearable Last Year.