So it's New Year's Eve, and I am sitting here picking words out of a story due before midnight. At the other end of the house, m'wife is doing the exact same thing to her own due story. This must be what marriage means.
When we're done, I have beef marinating in soy and ginger and Shaoxing wine; and there will be broccolini and bok choi and mushrooms and rice and so forth. Lots of garlic. I took the beef stock from the freezer, and found that I actually didn't need to defrost it, only warm it up a little; I've boiled it down so far there isn't enough liquid left in it to freeze. It's like a solid ball of rubber. I shall take a slice and return it.
And then there will be drinking, yes, and who knows whether we'll make midnight? It used never to be a question, but oh, these days. My nights are drawing in, and sometimes midnight seems a terrible far haul. And whether we make it or not, there'll still be a new year to face down in the morning.