That Friday I left the office early and set the autopilot for East and home. It was New Year’s Eve and most people were getting into the zone. Party time. The radio played loud music as I drove through the Lincolnshire countryside. The light was disappearing fast and with the mists rising up from the fields the whole place looked like a movie set.
When I got home there was a nerf war going on upstairs. It was a no-go zone if you were over 13 years old. Anne fixed me a cup of tea and I sat down to check my twitter updates. Nobody seemed interested in the nerf war. If it had been another French Revolution it would have been different. Or maybe not (shrugs shoulders)!
I reckoned I had another 15 minutes of typing before it would be time to hit the Morning Star for early doors. I wouldn’t be there long. Just enough time to sink a few beers and then collect the take away curry from Poppadom Express on Monks Road.
We don’t do a big New Years Eve in our house. I think deep down Anne would like to but I can’t take the Auld Lang Syne false bonhomie. Call me a miserable bastard. I don’t mind kissing all the girls though but I can do that at home – guaranteed 🙂
I took the curry order off the kids. Two chicken kormas, two chicken tikka massalas and whatever I wanted. Way back I used to be a vindaloo man or at least madras but I got out of the habit when I stopped going out on the town after rugby on a Saturday. That’s civilisation for you I guess.
I like this clear headed time sat at my laptop. I won’t be productive after the pub. Ernest Hemingway used to drink six bottles of red wine whilst writing but it doesn’t work like that for me. It is completely dark now.
