...seems to be a crying night.

Not a particularly sad night, you understand, but a night when emotion seems intent on bubbling to the surface.

It began with More 4's Peter and the Wolf - I knew that the music would begin the moment Peter managed to get out of the house, much like the colour suddenly appears when Dorothy lands in Oz, and yet, when it did, I was convulsed in great, wet, sobs of joy.  The whole thing was so utterly beautiful from start to finish, and somehow that seemed more than enough excuse to cry my eyes out.

Then there was an advert, which happened to use Sigur Rós's Hoppipolla... and I was off again...

I fear there may be more.  In fact, I rather hope there is.  Tears are the bathwater of the soul.

Maybe it's just old age.

There was a time when a big New Year's Eve party really appealed to me, when getting very drunk and leaping about with many like-minded people seemed the obvious and inevitable way of seeing in the next 365 days.

I have opportunites to attend such occasions this year:  I'm invited to a party in west London, and a good friend wondered if I fancied coming along to a club with him, or perhaps meet up to watch the London fireworks.

The last of these seems the most attractive, but I confess that what I yearn for is dinner, wine, and good conversation.  The number of people with whom this might occur is fairly small, and they're (so far as I know) all already committed for the evening.

There's a chance that I'll do what I've done in previous years, and have a quiet night in, in my own company.  Not such a bad thing, and potentially good for the soul.  Makes me almost feel a bit guilty though, as if I'd be spurning the company of those who've invited me out... very far from the truth, it's just that I really don't know if I can face it.