Waking To Destruction.

It is not as bad as I had expected. Ten years ago, walking out of my house in another, smaller, city on New Year’s Day, I would be confronted by the debris of celebration littering the road, the pavement, the front of my house. There would be the remains of fireworks shot into the air, or exploded at ground level; empty drinks bottles and cans (prior to them being refundable); paper and other debris connected to the fireworks, such as the packaging. Those who had celebrated would leave everything behind and, either drunk or sober, wander back to their own cozy homes, leaving the mess for others to clear up.

This year the destruction is completely different. The street outside my new apartment shows some signs of the party last night and this morning, but the celebrations were limited to half an hour at most. Gone are the days of fireworks lighting up the skies, at least in this part of the country, until three or four in the morning. Gone are the piles of discarded rubbish. I must admit, I do not miss them at all.

Instead the piles of debris are in my kitchen: across the worktop, in the sink. Cleaning up after my guests had gone, shortly after one in the morning, to catch their trams and buses home, was not on my bingo card for the start of the year. It has to be done, just as cleaning the street after the excesses of others had to be done, but not immediately. Rather, I can sit and enjoy a piping hot mug of tea, take a glance through social media for all the varied reports from friends and online acquaintances, and plan my day. The birdhouse has been filled with new seed. The birdbath has fresh water. The windows are secured against the rising winds, and my first batch of laundry – tablecloths and napkins from our dinner – are in the machine. The washing up can wait.

Image © Urban Camera.