Well, you know what they say. Best laid plans and all that. This new year’s eve was going to be so many things, but in the end it turned out to be none of them.

First, it was going to be a trip to Iceland to see Kristin and attend her Aunt Sigga’s party:

“…Aunt Sigga’s parties are usually full of lovable arty farty people. But I fear I must warn you though, Aunt Sigga is rather formidable and you’d better do exactly as you’re told…”

Then I got roped into going to San Francisco on the 4th of January - right when I was planning to fly home from Iceland, so my attendence at the party got put on a back burner until it turned out I was going to be far too busy in the office to make it to San Fran and I sent someone in my place instead. By then, though, the air fare to Iceland had gone through the roof, and the hotels were filling up fast.

So then it was going to be Mark’s party on the other side of town, and until lunchtime today it looked like all was going well. Then there was the inevitable last-minute hitch and… well… that was a no-go, too. It was starting to look like a quiet night in. The thought of Jools Holland’s 11th Annual Hootenany on BBC2 was enough to convince me that staying in would be a decidedly Bad Thing, so I called Kevin and talked him and Nikki into heading off for the Fox.

Honestly, every time I go there it seems to have more transvestites than the last. In fact I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that this time around there were more guys in skirts than there were in trousers. They all looked like either Mrs McClusky or a grieving Mediterranean widow, and between them they’d used so much hairspray they’d turned the whole place into a fire hazard.

One random inspection would be all that was needed to have the place shut down.

The night flew by remarkably quickly. One minute it was just after ten and we were buying the first round of drinks. The next, we were dancing and the clock showed eleven. Then, before anyone knew what was going on, the party poppers were going, the dirge that is Auld Langs Syne was blaring from every speaker, and the DJs were tugging on strings to release the balloons from the ceiling.

The balloons, meanwhile, were staying put, but the tugging of the strings was making the lighting gantry sway rather alarmingly, and look as though it might fall and kill someone at any minute.

After that, things kind of went a bit pfft and Kevin was keen to leave. I convinced him to stay another half hour longer, then we drove back through the rain, past the suicidal bunnies that sit by the side of the road waiting to spring out at you as you zizz by at 70mph (to date I’ve only had the misfortune to run over one of them, but it’s a nasty feeling nonetheless) and were back in Chelmsford by a little after one.

Not a bad way to start the new year, I suppose, but a little low-key.

I hope the next 366 days are a little more exciting.

This entry was posted on Thursday, January 1st, 2004 at 1:55 am and is filed under Journal. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.