Aftermath

I know we’ve turned the page over to a new year because I’ve started to look at smoothie recipes as if they are a viable breakfast. They contain things like kale, cucumber, green apples, green tea – anything green in fact. Even something called chlorophyll which I’m sure was classed as a venereal disease when I was a student. Definitely no bacon, anyway, and no chipolatas. All that good time stuff is over for the miserable month of January. That’s because, if you do penance with green stuff for a month, it will cancel out all the goose-fat-dipped carbs, all the sweet mince pies, all the brandy butter. I’m going to stop that list now because it’s making me feel a bit icky.

The hot news around the water cooler (well, tap) at work is the aloe vera detox – lots of skinny workers are downing gloopy glasses of the stuff and sweating it all off in hot yoga classes. Yes! Yoga comes in different temperatures now. I try not to roll my eyes in a “been there, done that, still roly poly” way – but right next door to the tap is a large box of left over Thorntons Christmas chocolates and they smell way tastier than aloe vera.

The green stuff is not the only clue to the start of the new year: there’s also the carpet bristling with pine needles and the Notes to Self on bright Post-its to be stuck into the spanking new diary around October 2016 – “Do not bake Christmas cake or steam pud!” “Do not order goose!” “Send emails, not cards!”. “You say this every year” say the offspring in a bored tone, barely looking up from their bowls of Shreddies. Do I? Well this year will be different; this year I have heart-shaped neon Post-its to prove it. Christmas 2016 will be a lean, minimalist affair. I have suggested Secret Santa Stockings for a start. I thought it was a brainwave. Son 1 was not impressed “But that means more shopping for me!” “But much less for me,” I counter, hoping to appeal to his sense of fairness. “Can we opt out?” So much for that.

The office Secret Santa was a disappointing affair this year. Nobody got a mankini for a start. I was given a large box of chocolates. I’m sorry, but  that just says “Who are you?”. First prize went to the person who gave a Lego gingerbread house to the office administrator. I’m going to buy several this year (there’s no Post-it veto on those).

Over the past few years we have started a bit of a tradition on New Year’s Eve of meeting up with some long-standing friends (not old – definitely not old) for a brisk walk followed by a lingering pub lunch. Most of the time the weather has been hideous and we have been able to cancel the walk bit and move straight to lunch, which is one of the advantages of planning a virtuous yomp at the end of December.

This year, though, the day dawned bright and sunny and the Ridgeway beckoned in a way that only Britain’s oldest road can. This ancient trackway, used since pre-historic times by herdsmen, travellers and soldiers (apologies to my friends Down Under who might have difficulty grasping that bit) is elevated and promises spectacular views on a clear day. Sadly, after several days of non-stop torrential rain it becomes a mud bucket of a skating rink. We hadn’t counted on that. I was the first to end up face down in the mire (in a white jacket, too).

Then, contrary to weather reports, the rain hammered down when we were still 20 minutes from our destination, crossing open fields with no shelter whatsoever. “So whose reponsibility was it to check the hour by hour forecast this morning?” asked someone with a dwindling sense of humour. I pretended to study the cloud formations.

We eventually dripped into the pub. Our host, busy polishing glasses behind the bar, did not crack a smile. I begged towels, blankets – anything to enable us to remove our sopping trousers with a modicum of modesty. A head shake. A G&T helped a bit. A wood burning stove helped a bit more. We ordered food. We were still wet and steaming slightly. My friend dug out a dry gilet and very cleverly managed to shimmy half out of her soggy jeans, using said gilet as a sort of skirt. I was impressed. 20 minutes later, though, she had a violent and sudden allergic reaction to something or other and ended up semi-conscious and face down in her husband’s plate. So that made two of us who had been face down and in a mess. “Shall I call an ambulance?” enquired our host in a Jeeves-like voice, still brandishing a tea towel. Not necessary. We used their linen napkins to wipe steak and kidney from her face and blow her nose. After a cup of tea she was – and I apologise for this – right as rain. So that solves the new resolution conundrum: just always take a change of clothing with you. Everywhere. Or at the very least a dry pair of knickers. And possibly don’t tuck into dodgy foie gras.