Every. Single. Year. At Easter the chocolate compensates for any social events you have to suffer through. At Christmas, even if your family is off the Richter Scale for paper-hat-wearing, cracker-pulling dagginess, at least you know what you’re in for. You can psych yourself up for the cousin who cries every time you get him out at cricket, the uncle who farts and falls asleep at lunch, and the unidentified salad that looks as if it’s been recycled from another event. When you yarn to your mates you talk Christmas down, as if it’s a chore. ‘We’re doing the family thing…all going to Aunty Sue’s place.’ Everyone talks up New Year’s Eve. Each year it’s going to be bigger and better than before, which, in theory, should be a shoo-in given how much the last one sucked. Seriously, it’s the one night of the year that is guaranteed to over-promise and under-deliver. Experience tells me I shouldn’t get my hopes up but I can’t wait for tonight. The sky is clear and windless.
