Boxing Day, 2017. Temperature still in single digits, and the sand is like walking on snow. Don’t spend too long in one place – impossible to, anyway, as the shivers tremble limbs and fix rictus grins. But the sky is bright, and the sea is shining. A countdown from 10. What the hell am I doing? A roar of the crowd matches the klaxon and there we all are; Santa’s and smurf’s, Batman, ballerina’s and T-Rex’s charging into the freezing water; all mutant children heading for the unknown. The cold hits your legs like a blanket – you’re too busy shouting, shrieking, and laughing to notice. Before you have time to realize you’re thigh-deep, waist-deep, chest-deep in tomorrow. Everything is numb, and you can’t really feel the cold anymore – only if you stop moving.
Like the new year we’re charging towards; it only hurts if you stop moving, or stop laughing.