In an hour’s time, at midnight, just as the fireworks light up the sky, a woman in the crowd on the bank of the Yarra will lean to her lover to kiss him. His lips will brush her cheek not lips and his eyes avoid hers. Her new year will not be happy, not for many months yet.

In eleven hours’ time, at midnight, just as the fireworks light up the sky, a woman standing in the snow will smile a forced smile and dutifully kiss her husband’s lips and the cheeks of his friends, knowing that this year she must make up her mind.

In eleven hours’ time, at midnight, just as the fireworks light up the sky, I’ll be standing in the garden of the house my girlfriend grew up in. I’ll kiss her cheek, and our children’s cheeks and our parents’ cheeks and I’ll be happy. For the last twenty-odd years I’ve celebrated more New Year’s Eves at her parents’ house than anywhere else. It’s a good way of celebrating.

I think, if I’m lucky, I might even get a true Happy New Year kiss, on the lips, wholehearted, quite soon. Not at midnight. But soon. This is going to be a good year.

Happy New Year! May your kisses be true.