Deborah surveyed the blank spaces on the calendar – what a difference a year had made. Last December she had been inundated with parties, meals and nights out, but this year it was a different story. Her New Years Resolution had seen to that, it was the one and only resolution she had stuck to. She thought that New Years Resolutions were supposed to make you happy but this one had only proved what she had already known – that she was the easiest person to forget.
She wished she hadn’t made it now as tonight she would have been out partying, all dressed up in some sparkly outfit, laughing, dancing, and singing. Instead, she was sat at home, a mug of hot chocolate in her hand watching the hands of the clock slowly circumnavigate their way around the clock’s face. A black fog of desperation descended the further the little hand made its way to 12. She had guessed the outcome of her resolution the day she made it, and it was a bitter pill to swallow, one she would have gladly liked to be proved wrong about.
Last year she had spent most of December organising parties and meals out with all her various friends, ringing round everybody to jolly them up. She was a born organiser, if there was a reason to celebrate, she would be there sorting it. She had been told that she should make a good party planner and had considered it as a career change but she had been happy just to do it for friends. This year though there had been no organising.
The clock ticked its way to midnight in time to Bryan Adams who was singing on the TV in County Hall in London to the backdrop of the River Thames. Throngs of people were assembled to ring in the New Year, with a lavish display of fireworks that seemed to go on forever. Deborah raised her cup of hot chocolate to the TV as the bells of Big Ben chimed and muttered “Happy fucking New Year”. Her phone pinged and in anticipation, she raised it to see a flashing gif wishing her a “Happy New Year 2022”. The jovial text came with no other message. Deborah threw her phone down on the sofa in despair. The hurt visibly etched on her face.
The party planner had officially left the building, the last pill sliding down with the last slug of hot chocolate – no longer the life of the party. As she gently closed her eyes she succumbed to the party atmosphere in the background and she was once again laughing, dancing and singing, a never-ending party. They would regret forgetting her or would they?
Tina’s writing 