Ailz says there were people arguing under our window at four in the morning- as there usually are on New Year's Day. I'm afraid I slept right through it.
I woke earlier for the fireworks. I thought there were less of them than usual.
Years are much of a muchness. People die, others are born. Fashions change. Some years are warmer, some wetter. One manages the best one can...
The sea battle at the end of Pirates of the Caribbean 3 lasts an age- which is good if you like that sort of thing. And apparently I do. Seems I can't get enough of broadsides and boarding parties and Bill Nighy emoting behind his octopus mask. I particularly enjoy the bit where Tom Hollander slowly descends from the poop deck- untouched- as the ship flies into smithereens around him.
I finished the last of the Brigadier Gerard stories. They're very simple tales, but Conan Doyle has the knack of making you want to find out what happens next. File under "Master Story-teller".
I had meant to wallow in Christmas TV, but there was nothing on worth bothering with. I caught the Dr Who Christmas Special a day late and it was far too twinkly for me. I think it would be good for the national soul if we Brits stopped telling ourselves heart-warming stories about World War II.
I haven't finished with Barrie yet. I read The Little White Bird over Christmas. It's the book the critics quote from- selectively- to prove that Barrie was a paedophile. Actually it proves the opposite.