This first appeared on my other blog, Too Much to Declare, on 31st December

Jackie hadn't gone out to celebrate the New Year ever since she and her husband had returned from a party and found their house had been burgled.  Tom had left the kitchen door unlocked.  They had an unprecedented, screaming, throwing-plates-at- each-other-row (the burglars had only taken electrical equipment and the sofa), during which Tom let slip that he'd been having an affair, and Jackie vowed to institute divorce proceedings as soon asthe solicitors re-opened on the 2nd January.

She never thought her husband would take her seriously - he never had about anything before.  But as they had stopped talking to each other it was hard to stop the process.  The marital knot was untied with brutal speed, and two days after the decree came through, Tom married his secretary.

Most of the time Jackie pushed these memories to one side, but each New Year's Eve she allowed herself to hate the happy couple with abandon.  When friends asked her to parties, she claimed she was afraid of being burgled.  Soon, they stopped bothering to issue invitations.  So what?  It became almost enjoyable to wallow and loathe.

Meanwhile, Tom and his secretary always celebrated New Year lavishly with hundreds of guests.  Fireworks in the garden, coke by the kilo and crates of champagne.  Jackie seethed at the thought of it and got drunk on Dubonnet and gin.

"You must take control of your life," her sister told her.  "Make the future yours." Her sister had recently begun a career in relationship conselling.

And Jackie knew that this year it would be different.  She would murder Tom.  Not literally, she decided quickly, but she would crash their trendy party, deliver the rant of her life and generally make make mayem.  Maybe flush lots of white powder down the loo.

Tom's house was a few miles away, in Chiswick.  Jackie caught the bus because she didn't trust herself driving, and wanted to drink as much as possible when she got there. 

She knew the house well, as it used to belong to Tom's parents before they moved to Minorca.  So when Jackie rounded the corner and saw the place was pitch dark, with an estate agent's sign saying sold, she could only pretend she was dreaming.  She tripped and grazed herslef badly on the pavement, putting paid to that idea.

Slowly, numbly, she began the long walk home.  She didn't even have enough energy to feel like hell.

A group of teenagers weaved towards her, boistrous, revelling.  They were bound to make fun of her, or lewd remarks.  Jackie checked that the bottom button of her coat was fastened so they couldn't see her legs or laddered stockings. If only she could think of something cutting to say...

"Happy New Year!" they all shouted.  Jackie was so taken aback her mouth failed to reply.  One of them offered her a can of beer.  She took it, dumfounded, and smiled.

Happy New Year!  Everyone she passed gave the same greeting.  Soon she was saying it first.  Suddenly life felt oddly wonderful.  The first night of the rest of her life!  She even waved at the driver of the white van who was driving too fast the wrong way down her street.

The front door had been smashed in.  The remains of her favourite vase lay smashed in the hallway.  Her clothes lay strewn, cosmetics scattered, furniture removed as well as her computer, suitcases, stereo.

All the thieves had left Jackie was her old TV, which she'd left on as a security measure.  "Happy New Year!" Jooles Holland beamed, arms outstretched like a tinpot Messiah.  "Happy New Year!"

"Baggage!" Jackie said, remembering she was over-insured.  "Who needs baggage?"