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from a PR.
    But I’m not sane. Or rational. I’m a glass of champagne and two very large tequila shots down already, and now it seems like a bloody marvellous idea. As does finishing off that entire box of Jaffa Cakes, I suddenly remember, tripping happily into the kitchen and returning with the contraband goods. Munching on a biscuit, I light her Diptyque candle with a flourish. There. Perfect.
    Inhaling the expensive scent of fig, I stand back from the fireplace. With the fire flickering away and the candle lit, I feel a warm glow. It all looks so lovely. So cosy. So romantic .
    I wish Seb was here.
    Boom. It hits me again. For a few moments he hadn’t been in my head, but now he comes flying back in again, almost knocking the breath out of me. Feeling my eyes prickle, I try quickly distracting myself by grabbing the remote and switching on the TV. I’m not going to cry, I tell myself firmly. I am not going to cry.
    I force myself to focus on the TV. It’s the usual New Year’s Eve-type stuff: a reporter standing by the Millennium Wheel, freezing cold in her silver dress and trying to look all jolly . . . flick . . . an old black-and-white movie . . . flick . . . Jools Holland’s New Year’s Eve show . . . flick . . . another reporter, only this time she’s on the other side of the Atlantic, ‘ even though we have a few hours to go until the ball drops, we’re gearing up for it here in New York . . .’
    Perching on the end of my bed, I watch as the camera pans around the dazzling lights of Times Square and the crowds of revellers all cheering madly, until it focuses back on a grinning couple.
    ‘. . . and here we have Tiffany and Brandon who are getting married tonight, live in Times Square! ’
    Argh no, we don’t. Hastily I flick channels. Now I’m back to the reporter freezing her arse off at the London Eye.
    ‘ So I’m with Andrew Cotter, a lecturer in Cultural Studies, to talk about all the different New Year’s Eve traditions and rituals that are happening across the globe .’
    Cut to Andrew, a short balding guy with glittery space-hopper ears. I’m presuming they’re part of a fancy-dress costume. At least I hope so.
    ‘ So tell me, Andrew, how is the rest of the world celebrating ?’
    ‘ Well, Kerrie ,’ he begins jovially, ‘ in Denmark you throw broken plates at people’s doors, and in Venezuela everyone wears yellow underwear for good luck— ’
    ‘ Yellow underwear! ’ giggles the reporter. ‘ Have you got yours on tonight, Andrew? ’
    ‘ I have indeed, Kerrie ,’ he winks. ‘ What about you? ’
    ‘ Well that would be telling! ’ she gasps with mock indignation, and they share a flirty giggle, before seeming to remember she’s live on TV, and she clears her throat briskly.
    ‘And of course here in the UK we have fancy dress! So let’s take a look at some of the best ones here this evening . . .’
    As a parade of people in whacky costumes troop by the cameras, I take a glug of tequila.
    Fancy dress.
    I mean, it’s not much cop, is it? Wearing yellow underwear and throwing plates sounds like way more fun than wearing a black Lycra catsuit and pair of furry ears. Tugging mine off, I chuck them on my dressing table. Sexy kitten indeed. Quite frankly I look more like an old moggy. Speaking of which, where’s Flea?
    Suddenly I hear a loud screech from outside and, glancing out through the window, I see an explosion of coloured lights. Of course. Fireworks. Flea must be hiding somewhere. He hates fireworks – they absolutely terrify him.
    I’m about to go on a hunt when I hear the teeniest of meows coming from under the bed and, unsteadily getting down on all fours (the tequila has gone right to my head), I peer underneath. Out of the dimness, a pair of huge green eyes stare back at me, unblinkingly.
    ‘Hey buddy,’ I cajole, reaching out to stroke him. He doesn’t budge. Paws curled under his chest, sphinx-like, he gives me a stubborn look that says, ‘Hey buddy