2019 is on the way out, thank goodness many would say. The sense of imposing doom is so strong that it has affected the space-time continuum. The year 2020, aware of what is likely to happen, is refusing to get out of bed to take its rightful place.
“Send some other year out in my place!” grumbled 2020 from under the duvet. “1820, or even 1320 might be better. Isolation from the known world, poor food, feudalism, health care by guesswork, that’s 1320’s bag. I’m having no part of it. Wake me up in seven centuries!”
Old Father Time sighed heavily. This was not the first occasion on which a renegade year had refused to cooperate. Indeed, in recent times, it had been almost an annual occurrence.
“At least you could get up and watch the fireworks,” said Old Father Time. “And welcome 2019 back into the fold.”
“Oh no, I can’t stand 2019,” moaned 2020.
“None of us can,” replied Old Father Time affably. “But it’s traditional to welcome the old year back, whatever we think about it. Besides, it’s not 2019’s fault that it turned out so unbearably dreadful. 2018, 2017 and 2016 all played their part. ‘Tis the season of goodwill, so get your arse out of bed and have a glass or two of bubbly!”
“Here comes 2019!” shouted everyone else. 2020 crept to the threshold to take a look.
“Where? I can’t see 2019 anywhere,” said 2020, as Old Father Time crept around behind with his biggest boots on.
“Over there! Look!” he said, pointing into the unimaginable void that separates the physical world from the fourth dimension. *Go on, step a little closer…”
“Where? I still can’t see it,” said 2020.
“Down there, between the Star of Bethlehem and the apocalypse. Here, let me help you…” said Old Father Time, kicking 2020 squarely on the arse just in time for January.
Unhappy New Year, everybody!