Gentle readers (all five of you), on this, the last day of our annus amusebiatchensis, we address you from our gracious drawing room* at Withering Depths, on the great and lonesome stretch of the Snarkshire Moors, not only to convey our best wishes for the new year, but also to deliver a public service announcement.
Where we come from, on New Year's Eve we engage in the ritual eating of twelve grapes at midnight, one for every stroke of the clock and every month of the coming year, whilst making a wish for every grape eaten. (None of this namby-pamby, Anglo-Saxon "you've got only three wishes" nonsense from the fairies of yore; it's ever so much nicer to come from a culture that automatically makes you a member of the Wish-of-the-Month Club.)
We would like to encourage you to adopt this practice, as we want only the best for you (and especially since there are no rules about how or where the grapes are to be eaten, if you catch our Tampopo** drift; as we always say, "Beulah, peel us a grape."***). But make no mistake (and this is where the public service announcement part comes in). There is one rule. It is absolutely essential that you eat the grapes and begin the new year whilst wearing red underwear. We cannot stress enough how important this is (and two continents and an entire people cannot be wrong). But if you do as we advise, good luck and happiness shall be yours in the coming year.
So, possums, join us for menudo tomorrow morning, and we promise to spend all day sharpening our claws so that we can provide you with more bitchery and polysyllabic invective throughout the coming year.
*Bonus points and an extra helping of good luck in the coming year if you got the AbFab reference.
**A double helping of good luck if you talk to us about unbroken egg yolks, the perfect texture of noodles, and live prawns in cognac.
***A triple helping of good luck if you recognize the Mae West allusion.
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