New Year's Day, twenty twelve. A rubicon is crossed. Nobody says twenty eleven. It's always two thousand and eleven. Nobody says two thousand and twelve. They say twenty twelve. Rubicon. And we've just saved two syllables.
I wake up with just the very mildest of hangovers - one cup of coffee away from feeling fine. This is AMAZING.
Particularly when I see Mandy (who wanted to be a spinning top last night). She's may not be spinning anymore, but the room still is. And she's in a sorry state - so sick she can't even face water, and sitting quietly (but for the odd moan), pale and with a sheen of sweat on her face. This is normally me. Not this year (feel mixture of deep sympathy and smugness).
Home. Supermarket for supplies. Hole up. Today is not about achievement. There are no resolutions. There is no review of 2011. Janus is on pause. Instead there will be steak, mashed potatoes and peas - the sort of graphic, clearly defined meal Mr Happy would eat. There will be watching of unsophisticated television. There will be deep sleep. And tomorrow the year starts properly.
Blank page, sharpened pencil. (The page represents the year ahead, the sharpened pencil optimistically represents me. See the power of metaphor).
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