No blogging today: I’m off to try the delights of a London Hogmanay. Yes, really.
Frankly, the longer one has endured what passes for life on this so-called good earth the more one wearies of the boozed-up, back-slapping amateurs who infest hostelries tonight insisting that all’s for the best in this the best of all possible worlds. If ever there’s a night for confounding Panglossians it’s Hogmanay. This is an evening for melancholy, regret, a Russian novel and a bottle of malt. And recrimination. Always recrimination. Another year gone. What’s to celebrate about that?
Happily (or not as the case may be) the Reverend I.M Jolly is here to remind us all that there’s more to life than happiness. A staple of every Caledonian child’s youth, Rikki Fulton is one for the ages. Or something. The editor of this magazine will also, I’m sure, remember this kind of charming homily:
Be that as it may, a Happy New Year to all readers…
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