New Year's celebrations go back a long way, though they did not originally fall on December 31. The vernal equinox in mid-March once served this purpose, but the Romans made the change to January at some stage. It has bounced around a little, the Medieval Church disliking its pagan origins, preferring to mark the calendar with religiously based events. It seems that in the West, the celebration at December 31 is a rather recent development and its most modern iteration (countdowns, drunkenness, fireworks etc) is very recent. I can recall as a young boy there being a fireworks display on the harbour. I also remember the banging of pots and pans as the midnight hour struck.

But truthfully, I don't really get the whole thing. I am not sure if I fully understand the tedium of sitting on a rug for hours, surrounded by strangers, a tilting bottle of champagne growing more tepid by the minute. There is a buildup of sorts, a movement towards a moment in time, not unlike any other moment, much looking at watches and smartphones, a period of more waiting, then the hurried chant to midnight. Fireworks (yes, big and beautiful), then nothing. A drifting way, without meaning.

Then the resolutions, made so that they can be broken the instant the last syllable has passed from the lips. It's not intentional, just a consequence of the habit. There's nothing wrong, of course, with resolving to do better and be better and I encourage it, through goal setting, every day of the year. For those reading this, make this evening's resolutions doable. Make them specific and measurable and realistic. I hope that you achieve them and thereby break the hoodoo of the unfulfilled resolution.

Stay yet, my friends, a moment stay—
Stay till the good old year,
So long companion of our way,
Shakes hands, and leaves us here.
Oh stay, oh stay,
One little hour, and then away.

William Cullen Bryant