I honestly don’t remember my first new year’s resolution.


My memories of Hogmanay as a child are fleeting – being woken up 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 and awaiting the countdown. Then there was the time, aged 15, I got a glass of something stronger than juice to toast with – a sort of passing of the alcohol baton, I guess, as twelve months later my parents became New Years’ designated drivers, scooping my sozzled self and my pals into a car at 1am after a night of partying.


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