Somehow we have made it through the festive gauntlet. An onslaught of food, drink and society mandated family contact. And now we reach the 31st of December. This is the end. Two Thousand and Thirteen lurches drunkenly and broken to its final day. Its passing left a trail of chaos and carnage that would do its forebears proud. In celebration we will leave the safety of our domiciles to roam the high streets and city centres, glasses and tumblers of intoxicant clutched reverentially in our hands. Clustered in groups of friends and acquaintances or folk we have never seen before, together we wait loud in our silence and silent in our loudness. We wait for time to tick its way onward to the edge of our Gregorian precipice, to the beginning of the year of our Lord Two Thousand and Fourteen. Well, you might. I’m going to sit in my front room and drink whisky. If I’m feeling extra fancy I might even turn the lights on.
But whatever the evening may bring and whatever the state of your wallet in the aftermath, just remember: Pay Day is coming. Pay Day is always coming.