…the end, swiftly followed by the beginning actually.
I heard the fireworks that marked the new year from my bed.
Cornflake was asleep already.
A far too strong champagne cocktail sent us to bed before midnight. The Champagne and brandy combo snatched away any chance of getting our reluctant arses off the sofa and up Primrose Hill to actually see the show.
I’d say “Happy New Year”, but internally I’d be thinking “Fat Chance”.
It might be more honest if I wish the world a less shit 12 months.
How about I just whole heartedly wish us all Good Luck?
Good luck!
fat tart 