The throng awaited, wrapped up in warm clothing, nudging together, backpacks full, bumping for space; standing by, watching for Big Ben to strike in the first minute of the New Year, heralding the first explosion of a magnificent firework display of some length, in celebration of the hope for a better year.
My young man and I sat, glasses in hand, watching and listening to the youthful exuberance and excitement spread before us on TV. Lily the cat withdrew to a bedroom, to curl up and try to avoid the nearby fireworks being released by local families. Thankfully, their display did not last too long; Lily's snores attested to that.
We shared these few minutes with Anna and her mother, in Lisbon Portugal, showing us Madeira and the cruise ships letting off fireworks, a traditional event. Next, we joined my family on the coast in Sussex and drank a toast with them, sharing the London fireworks and dancing from our armchairs, miles apart. The magic of the internet!
Finally, we called out our final wishes of love, switched off the TV and made our way to bed.
Arising first in the morning, I looked out the upstairs window to see a damp, grey day: no brilliant birth of a new year. Someone has to have a grey day was my thought as I went about the familiar mechanism of preparing breakfast for Lily and me; she was letting me know her hungry needs. My young man was still asleep upstairs, catching up after the late-night escapades.
I quietly made my way, breakfast in hand, to sit and watch Breakfast Television. I flicked on the switch to be immediately in Japan with the announcement and views of a big earthquake, splitting homes in front of me. A tsunami warning was in place, urging the inhabitants to head for high ground and not to wait for anything or anyone. I watched in horror; poor people.
The next item was another scene of an active devastation, and a promise by a leader to continue a war for another year with no let-up. Yet another country in unasked for hostilities was forced to retaliate against the destruction of the means to keep their population warm, fed and safe, with no sign of peace in sight. This was in the first few hours of the birth and celebration of the hoped-for better New Year.
My heart sank at the hopelessness of it all. I reached for the TV controller and just pressed anything for a moment's respite. I was now in Vienna in the company of the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, playing uplifting, beautiful Strauss music. It flowed through me and soothed me, showing a well-dressed colourful, smiling, clapping audience and flowers bedecking the walls.
My spirits rose, as did my confirmation of the enormous value of music, lyrics and singing, to raise the spirits in the most damaging circumstances. Examples abound in the First World War and the Second World War, where both troops and civilian populations were buoyed up by choral and popular music, plus singing and letters. Each and every war, no matter how small, has since taken comfort from them.
Revived, I rang a friend and asked if he knew a good news story I could use. He said, “Yes, I do!” I asked if he could share it with me. He then related this story:
A young boy, William, was killed by a hit-and-run driver in early December. His parents were devastated and they tried to make arrangements for his funeral. They wanted him to be buried in the grounds of a derelict church and a closed cemetery which he loved and where he escaped to spend most of his play time.
(I wondered where this ‘good news’ story was taking me.)
However, there were strict church rules which denied the grieving parents their wish for him to be buried there. They were greatly upset and worked hard to find a solution. A king, the new King Charles III, heard about their grief and, with his power as head of the Church of England, had the authority to change the rules, especially for them, and he did.
Sometimes, even in death, there is good news.
2024 © Penny Wobbly of WobblingPen
Photo: Pixabay License
