Hogmanay

Ever since I was first allowed to stay up for the bells, I hated Hogmanay. Sometimes we've celebrated alone, with or without the help of a dram; on one occasion we snuck off to bed early and woke when it was all over. On one occasion the four of us spent the evening with friends and returned home with our sleepy sons to find we couldn't get in the back door for the flood that had accumulated over a blocked land drain. At other times we've gone to join a party at the house of colleagues, from where I once, memorably, staggered down the icy road flashing a powerful torch into darkened rooms as I went. At this time I was old enough to have my grown-up son forcibly administer Irn Bru before I went to bed; I spent the night with its sickly taste on my teeth.

But for the past several years now, we've had a lovely Hogmanay, with our closest friends and a meal that I've spent the afternoon cooking. So my blip tonight is my bestie, at four minutes to midnight (not really an echo of my campaigning past, that) with her dram poised to welcome in the New Year. 

Here's to 2016 ...