Fentonton. Population: 1

The prize for most rubbish New Year’s Eve ever goes to this one, 2011.  It’s only 2pm on the 31st, and I already know this new year “celebration” (yes, fucking air quotes) is going to suck worse than a Christmas without gifts.  Worse than dental work.  Worse than another Twilight film.

How can I know it will be so bad?  Well, I’m sitting in the kitchen of an otherwise empty house in Kent, stone sober, eating breakfast cereal.  My family, my dear beautiful wife and children, are at this moment working their way out of Brisbane airport.  That’s how I know this New Year’s will suck like a Justin Bieber/Jedward collaboration.

If it was a separation of only a few days, or even a couple of weeks, that wouldn’t be so bad; but the solitary stretch I’m looking at is stretched out four long months.  That’s so far past the horizon I can’t know where it ends.

So, boo-hoo for me.  I shall celebrate the entry into 2012 (and yes, I nearly forgot: fuck you, 2011) by having a couple of beers, eating some ribs, and trying to be productive for the last few hours of the year.  Finish as you mean to go on, and all that.  And while I’m eating my Waitrose sad bastard meal for one, I will attempt to distract myself with activity, because if I keep staring at this gaping hole where my life used to be I might fall into it.  I come across one of the kids’ toys, under the sofa or behind a door, and I feel my throat closing up.  I used to think “getting all choked-up” was just something people said, but it actually happens.  These human emotions, they also suck.

Where’s that beer?

  

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