My family has a great tradition of holding a party on December 31st. I grew up celebrating this momentous occasion with pretty much everyone my parents knew, first squashed into our little semi, spilling out of the french windows and onto the patio (argh, such a suburban word!), later filling out our somewhat larger detached house. The difference between where we lived there and where we lived now is easily defined. Then, we invited all the neighbours to our parties. Now, they live too far away to complain about the noise. As I grew older I began to realise what exactly it was that all these people came, annually, to celebrate. Suddenly, there was a reason for the yearly stock up of alcohol, the huge buffet, the climbing over sleeping bodies to find the television the next morning.

It was a New Year.

It always seemed a little strange to me. I remember suggesting that we could do it every month, to celebrate the passing from one month to another. After all, that’s all New Year’s is. What dictates that December 31st is the end of one year, and January 1st is the beginning of another? People do, and god knows people are wrong about enough things. Mum laughed and said she couldn’t face doing that more than once a year. (remember kids, parties are no fun when they’re your own. Unless, of course, you happen to be irresponsible and careless like me. I enjoyed my birthday party immensely, thank you very much).

Quite frankly, I’m bloody glad this year is over. But I’m not looking forward to the next one. Because, and here’s the great universal truth bit that I like to include every now and then in the interests of pretending my diary is something useful and intellectual and not just a vent for my angsty teenage moanings, it won’t make any difference. In just over 5 hours, it’ll be a new year, but I’ll still be me and you’ll still be you. There’ll still be no World Trade Towers and there’ll still be starving homeless people in Afghanistan, hell – there’ll still be starving homeless people in Manchester. So drink champagne and let off party poppers, explode fireworks and make those list of resolutions that we all know you’ll never keep…in the end, it doesn’t make any difference. Whatever the date, we are who we are.

Suddenly, I’m not in the mood for a party.

< - >

* the marks of memories forgotten
* wasting emotions, over again
* intentions, and such
* nothing unusual, nothing's changed - just a little older, that's all (damien rice : amie)
* now I understand! It doesn't make sense because it isn't supposed to