I love New Year’s Eve, I know it’s silly and pointless, who cares? Entertainment is planned here, and I will dig out my way-out dress, but don’t think there will be much streamer chucking. However, Pere Noel bought me a magic carpet for Christmas, so come with me on a world tour.

Australia, Sydney, hottest day -  walking home in the hot night after the fireworks wearing a silver top hat and carrying a bunch of balloons. Select cruise between Sumatra and Java, followed by dolphins, giant jelly fish and phosphorescence. And dancing with the engineer, from a remote island, I swear he was 7 feet tall. India, in the fabulous dining room of the ex Maharaja’s guest palace. It was the year of 9/11, and there were few tourists, A few Germans and us tried to dance to ancient Rock and Roll cassettes, bizarre. We often went and had a party with the staff. The picture is India, New Year’s Day, our treat to 15 children in the local water park.

We were in very smart Positano in Italy, at a party in a night club, a marquee on a beach. At 4 a.m it was baking, and young Italians were trying to improve my Italian. Mr G was still wearing a sweater. Asked why, in that heat? I said he was a ‘cold-blooded Englishman’. Untrue, don’t know how it translated but great mirth. In Rome, night club, entrance fee and half bottle of  champagne. We paid three times, and got a glass. I berated them in Italian, Mr G in English. It was nearly midnight and manager nearly in tears. Would we leave? Yes, if we had our money back. We left haughtily, bar across the road. The owner’s wife had just presented him with a son, so we spent the night wetting the baby’s head. Sicily, where the local police wore revolvers. They ‘shot’ the old year out, sadly forgetting people were in the upstairs flats. Victims had a lovely funeral. Forget where in Italy, Mr G had taken exception to a hideous cactus in a 40 gallon oil drum, so he ceremonially pee’d on it.

France, fantastic local do’s. Super food, all the racket of streamers, hats, hooters, danced ones feet off. We kept it up till 4 a.m, then suffered cat-calls because the Brits could not take it. There were ‘hops’ in local village halls. At one, there was a little man in a corner, wearing his cloth cap, in front of an enormous wife. At midnight, help! He leapt up and chased me and d-in-law, he had his eye on us all evening. As soon as one of us collapsed, he grabbed the other, kissing as many other women who could not dodge. Reckon he got French edition of tongue pie later

Sousse, in Tunisia, was horrible. Don’t think we ever celebrated in UK, too expensive and baby sitters as well. One of the highlights of my year has been writing blogs and enjoying the responses. So, traditionally, all good wishes for 2024. Like Edith Piaf, ‘no regrets’ for 2023. 

The Gardener

A Moodscope member