THE PARTY THAT DIDN'T QUITE BREAK OUT

A belated happy new year to all my reader! I know you’re there somewhere, you little rascal.

I didn’t get round to it on January 1 because I was a mite hung-over. Mrs N and I entertained our two oldest friends (think Methuselah) on new year’s eve, and we decided we’d try to recapture our youth, when new year’s eves could be a day-long affair.

We would, however, bear in mind that all four of us are sexy-genarians, some more than others, and make a steady start with just a glass of wine or two with a snacky lunch. We didn’t bear in mind, however, that today’s wine glasses are buckets compared to the dainty affairs of the 1960s. And by mid-afternoon we were sitting in comfy chairs trying not to nod off.

We had family visitors just before five and they were obviously expecting a drink before going on to to their own celebrations, so my mate Terence and I cracked open some beers. Veronica stuck to wine and Mrs N had a break because she had volunteered to cook.

The family visitors stayed for an hour and a half, and we resumed comfy chair duty and awaited the last supper of 2008. It was a good ‘un, worthy of more wine and then some port, maybe a beer.

A party was ready to break out – but the lure of the comfy chairs was too great. We played music and chatted (to keep ourselves awake) and then joined Jools Holland for his Hootenanny. We made it to almost half-past 2009 before we just had to go to bed or collapse on the floor.

We all slept in on January 1, eventually crawling out for a massive, late-morning fry-up, and a long inquest on why we couldn’t do it any more, and why we did it when we were young.

There is, of course, only one answer. It’s the law when you’re young. It’s the law of diminishing returns when you get past a certain age.