Like it's 1999

Sitting in the pub at 5.00 on New Year's Eve with Ned and Tess, Ned said "You're getting that nervy look again. Don't worry. It's going to be the greatest party ever." I said that you must not hope for anything you want too much. Ned then spent the rest of the evening trying to wind me up by declaring repeatedly that it will be the greatest party ever.

Richard arrived and started setting chairs in a circle in the living room. I didn't want it to be that kind of party. I don't want to sit around hearing about your fucking job. As more people than chairs arrived, I surreptitiously took the chairs out, forcing people to stand up--and, I hoped, to dance.

My musical selection wasn't achieving the latter objective, so I let them loose on the computer, which produced a much better response.

Richard's wife died four years ago, and his best friend suffered the same fate a month ago. He drank a whole bottle of Jack Daniels and before the stage at which he couldn't stand up, he set off a couple of alarm bells when he was draping himself needily around Tess and Kitty. "Do you need rescuing?" I whispered to Tess, but she waved me away. I'm not good at sympathy, and as I went halfheartedly to drag him onto the sofa after he fell over in front of the fireplace, I'm glad I stopped myself from saying "He's alright. I think it's partly attention-seeking behaviour." But I did say, once he was slumped on the settee again, "Listen Richard, you're not having anything more to drink at this party otherwise you'll have to leave. It's New Year's Eve and you're not contributing much to the night at the moment."

Next morning he was highly apologetic, saying how he was staring out of the window and realising that D--- was dead. I nodded and produced a couple of conciliatory formulae, but I hope he got the message that in future he's got to handle his drink, not bring all his bereavement grief to the party, and that the female guests aren't to be used as social workers. However, the incidents with Richard were but peripheral to a superb night.

I overheard one of those age-old conversations-cum-arguments when one of a yoked dyad wanted to leave and the other wanted to stay; but there was a serendipitous accident in which they didn't hear the text from their taxi home, and besides, you'll not win with Chris, and her boyf was packed off home. A couple of hours later Chris and Barry had an interesting conversation and--I gathered later--walked round to his house to develop their mutual understanding of the topics in question.

Tom, the new lodger, who hardly drinks, showed surprising fortitude in staying up till an early hour, without the catnip that several of the guests were on. Someone asked me for another Smartie at one point and I felt a bit embarrassed when he caught sight of the little plastic bag. But by that stage it was taking off and I was dancing and chatting and had got to the "ah fuck it" stage.

Trina came into the kitchen, where I was chatting to Kitty, and said "I'll forgive you." "What?" "With Chris." I had no idea what that meant and couldn't be bothered pursuing it. Chris and I have sex often, in my imagination. Barry came up and said "Those Smarties! They're the ones that all those people at that party in Holland ended up in hospital with!" "Well I don't know when I'm going to die then Barry because I've had about a dozen of them in the last couple of months."

I gave up at 8.30, because Trina had to drive home--over the limit, and with drugs in her system--although it went on, in a fashion, until the following afternoon.

Someone texted "Looby! Must tell you again, last night was fab!" Someone else said "...the people were just amazing." When I woke up at 2am this morning, there was a text from Mary-Ann. It was unexpected and lip-bitingly delighting: "Merry 2014, sexy thing", which pleased me no end. I texted Daniella, her of the two dates, gorgeous dress, bit taller than me, the sexual thrill of having to tilt my head up slightly to kiss her, and the terrible scene with Trina when she found a text from me to her on my phone. "Hello Daniella. Happy New Year you sexy girl. I often think about you in that lovely dress you wore at the Sun and at yours. Hope you had an enjoyable Christmas. Your admirer from Lancaster X." No reply; not really expecting or wanting one.