“Look, Ginger,” she sighs, looking like she’s starting to get fed up with me. “You can take my advice or leave it, it’s up to you. You don’t know me. I’m just some mad, probably drunk old woman in a pub, right?”
“Right,” I nod, glad we’re on the same page at last. “I mean, I’m sure you’re notmad. You seem really nice, honest. Well, other than the ‘ginger’ thing, obviously. I prefer ‘redhead’. But it’s just…”
The music suddenly cuts out, and is replaced by the familiar chime of Big Ben playing over the speakers.
“Ten!” everyone screams in unison. “Nine!”
My stomach flips over with the anxiety that comes from being forced to witness timeliterallyrunning out. I feel it at other times too, but on New Year’s Eve, the feeling is so visceral it makes me wish life came with a ‘rewind’ button, so I didn’t have to experience it.
No more New Year’s Eve. No more wasted time. No more existential angst.
Doesn’t that sound amazing?
On the dance floor, Chloe and the Prince are already kissing, not bothering to wait until midnight.
“Five! Four!”
This is not where I want to be. I’m not sure it’s whereanyonewants to be, really, but, when I was younger, I always imagined myself spending New Year’s Eve sipping cocktails on some tropical beach; not sitting with a bunch of strangers in a dive bar in my hometown.
And yet, here I am.
“Get out of here, I’m tellin’ ya,” says the Crone, looking at me meaningfully. And, even though I have no real clue what the meaning of her look actuallyis, as the clock strikes midnight, and everyone except me has someone to kiss (I guess Icouldkiss the Crone, but… no), I decide to take her advice.
I get out.
I go home.
“Butnowwhat?” I wail miserably to myself, dumping my coat onto my bedroom floor and throwing myself face-first onto the bed when I arrive back at my cold, empty flat, the lyrics toAuld Lang Synestill ringing in my ears.
The words of the Crone keep going round and round in my mind.
What if the Crone was right?
What if I reallyamrunning out of time to do all the things I want to do with my life? Because I certainly feel like I am. And the fact that theonly person to wish me a Happy New Year so far was an Uber driver called Kevin who kept calling me Sarah, isn’t exactly doing much to diminish that feeling.
I roll over onto my back just as my phone beeps urgently inside my bag.
I bet that’s Chloe, wondering where I am.
I struggle back into a sitting position and rummage for my phone, navigating to the messages app to see what she has to say for herself.
But it’s not Chloe.
No, it’s my boss, Linda, messaging me at 12:33am on New Year’s Day to ask if I’ve finished this week’s KPIs.
I stuff my face into my pillow to stifle a scream of frustration.
I hate my job. Which is unfortunate for me, because the only logical next step up for me from here would beLinda’sjob. ThenI’dbe the one messaging people in the middle of the night, asking for a set of figures that literally no one cares about.I’dbe the one with no life. Or evenlessof a life, rather.
Maybe that woman in the pub was sent to me for a reason? Maybe she reallywassome kind of Fairy Godmother? Maybe this is the sign I’ve been waiting for to force me to change my stupid life?
Out of the corner of my eye, something catches my attention. It’s a cardboard box, a little damp around the edges, and with a musty, just-out-of-the-attic look about it.
SUMMER’S DIARIESreads the scrawled caption on the box.DO NOT OPEN. ON PAIN OF DEATH.
Oh yeah. I almost forgot Mum dropped that off earlier. Well, I guess I could do with a distraction.
I pick up the box and open it cautiously, as if the contents might be dangerous. But it’s just a pile of old notebooks, in varying states of repair. The one on top is a blue, hard-backed exercise book which Irecognize from Science class. I pull it out and idly flip it open, hoping that whatever’s inside will give me enough of a laugh to make me forget all about Chloe, and Prince Charming, and Wise Old Crones. Maybe even enough to make me forget Linda and her KPIs.
