New Year’s Eve is a time for looking back and forward; or,
in this case, neither.
We were supposed to cross the triangular village Green to
N’s house, for nibbles and vodka shots, at about half-six. I’d then go back to the rented cottage to
peel potatoes and turnips and heat up two or three haggises (haggi?) in time
for a late supper, for somewhere between five and fifteen people. I’d thought ahead, even brought my own masher
for the tatties’n’neeps just in case the cottage didn’t have one (it did).
Around eight-thirty, it became evident that this wasn’t a
plan any more. The nibbles were running
out, so we dashed back over the Green for an extra pork pie and a few more
bottles. At this point, the plan swerved
into a visit to Kate and John’s house round the corner, where their son was
running a tiny disco in his bedroom: only room for about five people to dance,
let alone fifteen. So fifteen of us danced. The haggi were receding into the future. I think it might have been around this time
that I uttered my first profundity of the evening: “The Best Plan Is Not To
Have One.” Or something like that.
I got into a deep musical conversation with John, leading up
to the crucial question: “So, what’s your favourite album, Tim?” I was about to explain solemnly that it was
Petra Haden’s a capella version of ‘The
Who Sell Out’, and why, when he looked at his watch. “Ah.
Excuse me.”
I think I heard a distant shout of “Kate! Get your fiddle! Now!”, but I can’t be sure because the next
thing I knew I was about four places back in a Pied Piper’s procession across
the Green towards our cottage. John was
strumming to Kate’s exuberant fiddle-playing, and everyone was doing that side-to-side
splay-legged arm-flapping walk-dance that you can only do when intoxication and
euphoria exactly coincide and merge into a perfect moment, just before midnight
on New Year’s Eve.
Just as we reached the space in front of the cottage, the
church bells started ringing the Year in, riotously, joyously blending with our
music (I think there was singing by then), and twelve struck – a momentary reflective
pause – before Auld Lang Syne was sung and someone suggested we nip across to
the pub for “Just the one.”
The haggi have been
frozen, puir wee sonsie beasties, possibly to be regenerated around 25th
January.
No wonder you didn't emerge to tell us about it until the 3rd.
ReplyDeleteToo busy visiting us utterly sober and bushy tailed, on the second.
ReplyDeleteWe don't really do New Year's Eve so we had our haggis, tatties and neeps (plus wee dram) on New Year's Day. Very nice it was too.
ReplyDeleteHappy New Year!
Just one question - was it THE potato masher? Happy New Year by the way xx
ReplyDelete