I spent a good 20 minutes of New Year’s Day bawling my eyes out and the December credit card bill hasn’t even arrived yet.
It was nothing specific, just my usual gremlins, and for me the clock always ticks loudest at this time of the year.
You may as well start 2022 as you mean to go on, I quipped, blowing my nose.
And as people are inclined to advise: “crying’s healthy.”
Not when you’re doing it while driving up the pitch black M6 in biblical rain, it isn’t, having said goodbye to the kids for another fortnight.
I blame the new CD in the car that I picked up on a flying visit to Morecambe – Tony Christie’s Definitive Collection (£1.65) -from Cancer Research UK.
After Vegas floor-fillers like Amarillo and I Did What I Did For Maria, it’s downhill all the way.
Solitaire, Daddy Don’t You Walk So Fast, Most Beautiful Girl and So Deep The Night would bring tears to a glass eye.
The television on the countdown to New Year was reliably awful. Jools Holland still doing his stuff on one side and some nobody on the other, so we played Trivial Pursuit.
I could have cried when the eldest was asked to name which cricket ground in London – home to Test cricket – is named after a shape.
“The Circle?” came the answer.
A refresher course in the nation’s sporting grounds could well be going on her New Year’s resolutions, which the sister comically dismisses as a “to-do list for the first week of January.”
Another good Trivial Pursuit question which taxed the mind was: “Barry Manilow got to number 1 in 1976 with the song I Write The Songs Which Make The Whole World Sing – but did he write it?”
My biggest personal resolution is to abandon all hope of ever writing a book. It is the only achievement I’ve effortlessly maintained for 30 years, so this blog may have to do instead.
And it must be knocking on 30 years since I last watched the film Alive: The Miracle of the Andes (1993).
I was very impressionable back then and I remember hoping that one day in the future I might blossom in to the kind of man shown by Nando Parrado. He bravely led the 10-day climb out of the mountains to get help after the 1972 plane crash.
Then it dawned on me that I had barely been able to get my sister’s impossible gas fire going while she was away visiting friends in Covid capital.
(She is back today and was positive she was negative, which she was.)
And with my 50th birthday now howling at the door this month, I recognised to my horror that the type of bloke I have grown in to is probably more accurately reflected in Alive in the on-screen portrayal of Bobby Francois.
Bobby pretty much spends the entire disaster sitting on his arse chain-smoking outside the devastated fuselage.
Breaking his silence only to interject with some unhelpful truths about their probable fate and the futility of it all.
I’m not sure if it’s a faithful representation of him, but when they wish “Happy New Year,” I’m inclined to reply: “Says who?”