WELCOME

Well here we are one the eve of another year, and they do seem to go faster than ever, especially for those of us who need to have the Fire Brigade on speed dial when we light the candles on our birthday cake. My resolution this year was the same as Baron Frankenstein’s - to make new friends. I also made a resolution to drink more water, though thus far I have only got as far as drink more... Ah well, all these resolutions go in one year and out the other.

As many of you may already know, my late father was a Scot, and New Year is a very big deal in the land of the kilted haggis-bashers. He was a seasoned beer drinker, but at Hogmanay he would hit the top shelf, single malt whisky. And the effect this would have was to make him into a maudlin lost soul. Out would come the record player and on would go Andy Stewart singing ‘A Scottish Soldier.’ Tears would flow, mainly from the rest of the family having to listen to this a dozen times. But then, out would come the bagpipe records. It’s a well known fact that bagpipers marched fast while they played in war zones, because it made them harder to hit, and also because they too wanted to get away from that sound. The only way to get two pipers in tune with one another is to shoot one of them. It was through my dad and New Years spent in Scotland that I learned of First Footing, a tradition where the first person to enter a home on New Year’s Day is believed to bring good fortune for the coming year. Unless its a burglar, serial killer or tax inspector, obviously. The tradition involves a number of specific customs, including: The first person to enter the home had be a dark-haired man. This is thought to be a reference to Viking raiders, who often had blond hair and brought trouble. We didn’t get many of them in our area, blond blokes being in very short supply in the 1960s. The first person would have to enter after midnight on New Year’s Eve and should bring gifts, such as coal, shortbread, salt, a “we’ll black bun, and whisky. These gifts represented prosperity, food, flavour, warmth, and good cheer. But no bugger ever turned up on our doorstep save for one memorable year when Uncle Johnny arrived unexpectedly, bearing a litre bottle of vodka and a large box of Quality Street. Uncle Johnny was a charming man who had a big crush on my mum and wanted to spirit her away to treat her like a queen, possibly feeding her grapes and stuff while she reclined on a chaise longe. She later told us that she regretted taking up his offer and would have done so instantly had he not had such a big nose. Bit shallow was my mum.