I honestly don’t remember my first new year’s resolution.
My memories of Hogmanay as a child are fleeting – being woken at 11.30pm to celebrate the bells with my parents. The first year I was allowed to stay up all the way through, watching Jools Holland. The time, aged 15, I got a glass of something stronger to toast with – a sort of passing of the alcohol baton, I guess, given twelve months later, my parents became designated drivers, scooping my sozzled self into a car at 1am after a night of partying with my pals. It wouldn’t be the last time.
Every new year after that one was accompanied by alcohol and gradually, so too was every other big occasion. Birthdays, Christmases, funerals, Fridays, all celebrated or commiserated with booze and a gang of mates. None of us had a problem, though sobriety seemed, frankly, out of the question. Many of those special occasions I barely remember now – though the photos suggest they were a lot of fun.
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