Phew. The morning after New Years Eve. I have slept away
elven hours of the New Year already and boy do I feel like shit. I am one of
those people who join in with the pre-party enthusiasm, the hopes and the
goals. But then, when that countdown is happening down to midnight and we are
all working together in a drunken daze, I remember the previous year’s goals,
and the previous. And then, as the New Year crashes into me, I become an
ephemeroptera. A little mayfly who had just been sat down by Mum and Dad
mayfly. ‘Son,’ they say to me. ‘You’ve done so well and we’re very proud of you
– you can hover better than any fly your age!’ I sit quietly, unsure why I was
being treated with these accolades. Mum and Dad look at each other, exchanging
worried looks as if silently trying to decide who should speak. It’s Mum who
opens her mouth first. ‘Dear, you’ve grown so much since you hatched this
morning, I’m afraid it won’t be long until you start getting too old to fly.’ I
am tremendously confused. Mum and Dad can’t fly, but they’re super old! ‘What
do you mean, Mum?’ Glum faces all round. ‘Well dear it’s most likely you will
start getting weak this evening, and then… well and then you will pass on
honey. Like me and your father will this afternoon.’
I feel raw as the full extent of my mortality smashes into
me. Just a little mayfly, bound to go through the motions of everybody else. I
groan and curse New Years and its illusions of hope, and gratefully return my hung-over
self to unconsciousness.
