gone and out

When the bang of the door falling into the frame had dissipated, an eerie calm took possession of the flat. The week before, ten days maybe, though it felt like a month, there had been constant chatter, activity, music, smells and noises from the kitchen, dishes clanking in the sink, shower running and steaming up the bathroom, the asthmatic boiler pushing hard against the winter cold that tried to force its way inside through rickety windows. It was the days of Christmas, however many, and I had visitors.

A couple from Italy had joined my girlfriend and me after Christmas. We had done this before on other occasions, but this time was different. There was a one-year old around to readjust priorities. Where there used to be hot espressos and maybe drinks after dinner, there were now herbal infusions and furtive breaths taken during rare quiet moments. My friends hadn't exactly been irresponsible hedonists, but they used to enjoy their life in a much different way. Now they are parents.

My sister, in a very similar situation, told me about her New Year's party, recalling a 75-year-old couple as they stepped onto their porch to watch the neighbors' launching batteries of fireworks from a hill a hundred feet away from the house. A few moments out in the night, a few sips of champagne and a hug and good wishes, and they had retreated back to the comfort their sofa, oblivious of the world around them.

By that yardstick, I felt at least 90 when 2013 came around. I didn't even go outside. No mingling with the millions down at the Embankment, no countdown shouted deafeningly. I stuck my head out of the window as Big Ben announced the new year on Radio 4, looking for signs of party in the street. Revelers shared hugs in The Goose, but at the bus stop, people waited for their ride as if it were any old night. I saw reflections of distant fireworks that might have been ambulances passing by or just the spinning beacon of the minicab office below. After just enough time for some fresh air, the window went down again and the curtains across. We went back to card games, the Champagne a refreshment rather than a decadent pleasure.

When the door closed on Wednesday and my friends were on their way back to Italy, I was left with the accumulated debris of the festive period. Another change. Usually a recycling sack lasts a month. Now I had two of them clogging the kitchen. At least the rubbish is picked up daily in my part of town. It took half a day to exorcise the demons of sociability and restore order, cleaning the slate for a year that will see big changes.

Happy New Year!