Seeing people in Tesco the day after Boxing Day they looked more like they had escaped a hostage situation rather than come from a family gathering. I swear, sometimes being unsocial is the best option.
You won’t be surprised to know that I will be spending New Year’s Eve alone with my cat, Schizo.
In the past, I have done the party thing. For years I went to Trafalgar Square. It was tolerable until they banned alcohol, but it still had the air of contrived revelry, strained jollification, and an unrealistic expectation of having a good time. A lot of faces in the crowd looked glum, and it used to confirm my belief that I’m right to want to live my life on the fringe, in the margins and away from the fray.
Don’t get me started on fireworks.
Earlier this evening I saw Hong Kong welcome in the New Year with the wretched things. It will be the same all around the globe. Until I came to my senses, for a number years I went to the Thames to watch the display. Talk about tedious; my main memory is of being desperate for a pee. At least in Trafalgar Square you can have a wee in the fountains. It’s traditional.
So I’m my usual misanthropic, distrustful self. I don’t go out of my way to be like this; it’s my default setting.
Still, Happy New Year. I hope you have a good 2018. But don’t get your hopes up.
The next post will be called Aspirations. It will cover my plans to organise my psychosis, shape-up and get with the programme.
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