It seemed as though I’d barely waved off my Boxing Day guests when it was time to ring in the New Year. Now in the past it would be fair to say that celebrations haven’t been frequent. Usually Mr V and I are on standby picking up our teenagers from parties. However, this year they’d absented themselves altogether. I didn’t know whether to say ‘Hurrah’ or weep into a box of man size Kleenex for being obsolete. I opted for ‘Hurrah’ and got on the blower to a local restaurant. ‘Can you squeeze two more in this evening?’ They could. Double hurrah. So after a veritable feast (no rock hard Yorkshires or watery gravy in this place) we went home replete and awaited friends to join us for champers.
The conversation and drink were flowing. My lovely neighbour, as bubbly as champagne and twice as pretty, indicated her ample cleavage spilling forth from her plunging dress and lamented about the regulation New Year Diet when...ding dong...more guests arrived. They wanted to raise a glass with us. ‘Come in, come in,’ I trilled.
Over the threshold they came. Seating became a problem. One gentleman opted to stand and positioned himself by the fireside. His eyes repeatedly fell upon my neighbour’s assets while his wife began to look as though she was chewing a wasp. I couldn’t even get her drunk as she’d been nominated to be the driver. No such thing for the rest of us however. I’m not a regular drinker (other than a Saturday night tipple if Mr V takes me out) but it would be fair to say that on New Year’s Eve I was...squiffy. Certainly squiffy enough to go to bed leaving the back door open. Still. These things happen. Nobody came in the night to rob or murder us. If they had I'd have battered them (excuse the pun) with one of my leftover burnt Yorkshires.
Meanwhile, Happy New Year to you all. Which reminds me. I kick started my New Year with an IQ test. The results were negative...