P.A.R.T.Y.

So you are all, quite rightly, outraged at the €140 New Years extravaganza. Let me clarify:

No, we are not being blackmailed, they are not famous, it is not for charity and the canapés will not be solid gold (though almost all of them will be solid fat). There will be tediously expensive wine, certainly, that I will have no interest in drinking, preferring several pints of generic cocktail for the purposes of getting drunk and abusive and then sliding gently into a coma.

The Space Cadette cruelly suggested that perhaps the neighbours would like to swing with us.

"Is it all COUPLES?" she asked, archly.

"Yeeeeesss... Oh thank you. Just when I thought this evening couldn't get any more terrifying in prospect, you suggest that I may be asked to "swing" with our 300lb bearded neighbour. Cheers. Do have fun in your freezing field full of hippies in Kent, won't you?"

Even Prog Rock Step Dad is getting mildly gleeful at our discomfiture, chuckling softly to himself as he darns the Space Cadette's trousers. The spawn have been sleeping in 'til nearly nine to prepare themselves for rising before dawn and piercing all our internal organs with shrill cries tomorrow.

Have a wonderful evening everyone. Especially those of you in softly, soundproof lit flotation tanks. The rest of us will have to muddle through as best we can. I will be taking notes, probably some hideous photos, hopefully not my own life with a dessert fork to the jugular.

Bon réveillon!