oh is it that time again?

We spent New Year in Cambridgeshire, travelling up a potholed track in mist and darkness, so that anything could have been on either side of it. Although in truth, and as daylight subsequently revealed, it was a lot more like nothing. Moist black earth. Misty pylons. An uninspiring shack offering 'Hot Tubs'. Dave's satnav was set to Finnish, adding an extra dimension of bleak alienation. We might have been in Belgium.

Our cottages boasted a hot tub, possibly procured from that very uninspiring shack. Dave and I lifted the lid of it and were instantly gassed. The stench of chlorine lingered in our nostrils as we staggered out into the light, clutching our throats like it was the Great War all over again. People thought we were exaggerating. They learned.

Undaunted, we explored our surroundings further. This 'working farm' was a real playground. Trough full of icy water; rusting hayfork; abandoned septic tank. The kids - if they survived being gassed by the hot tub killing machine - would be in Heaven. Literally.

As for New Year itself, well we are all far too mature now to disgrace ourselves - even Rhys has lost the knack of drinking too much, and Mat had diarrhoea (not a cocktail). We were reduced to watching, with fond nostalgia, fifteen-year old Saskia get drunk for perhaps the first time. Not that we were encouraging her of course - unless you call dancing round her cheering while she downed a yard of Special Brew 'encouragement'.

This didn't really happen, I should point out. Instead we played a game in which you had to place an After Eight on your forehead and work it down to your mouth without using your hands. I wasn't very good at this but that wasn't the point. The point was to take photographs of your facial contortions and put them on the internet to make it look like you are mentally disabled. Happy New Year!