happy new year, mayhaps

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It's about half past three on the last afternoon of the year. 2015 sped by crazily, barely allowing me to get used to it not being 2014, and then springing 2016 on me quite haphazardly. Husband is poorly. He has Man-Flu {a cold, although in his defence, it is a fully-blown, snot-encrusted vision of hopelessness}. As he sleeps like a baby, all cosy and tucked up with a cat curled by his side and an arm wrapped around my microwave-warmed Bagpuss, I have taken the liberty of removing Christmas from the house. I packed it into two boxes and one bag and nudged it tightly into the corner of the cupboard under the stairs. No room for Harry now! I have dusted, hoovered, changed some photos in frames, put a bunch of tat into the charity box, emptied the dishwasher and all the bins, put the heating on, got hot, turned the heating down, and opened some windows. I'm quite pleased that Husband is poorly. This isn't meant to sound mean. He's been very poorly in the past with Chronic Kidney Failure, so him being ill is a worry unto itself anyway. No, what I mean to say is that I hate new year. I don't understand new year. Celebrating a new year is pointless. With him being entombed in the bed, I can snuggle up beside him and ignore the fireworks, which will inevitably bang, and the inebriated people, who will inevitably sing, badly and loudly. However you celebrate it - or not - have a very happy beginning to 2016. *smile*