Even so, we decided on something adventurous to celebrate bringing in the New Year. Instead of the tiresome television jollities and with everything from restaurants to taverns closed, we decided on a three mile walk into the countryside bringing with us hot chocolate and a bottle of bubbly—our destination a viewing point of the river down a dark country lane.
The destination was attractive, even at night, the walk back possibly less so. But we never got the chance to see either way. 2020 had one last trick up its sleeve.
Fog and freezing ice.
I was the first to slip as we walked down the pitch-black hill to the lane. The ground skidded away from my feet, leaving me to flail the air like puppet caught in a whirlwind. Undeterred we carried on, but proceeding with such caution it was likely we'd be bringing in 2022 by the time we reached our destination.
My son was the next one to slip, his gyrations even more spectacular. And the penny dropped. 2020 wasn't finished with us yet, but we had finished with it.
We walked back up the hill to drink our hot chocolate and bubbly at home, an altogether more civilised alternative.
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