Three of us sitting in our living room on the thirty-first of December, watching London through television screens and listening for Big Ben’s chimes to signal the beginning of 2012. All is calm, here, and a little awkward too. We’re siblings and a second later than before we feel it is necessary to hold each other and pat each other on the back, do the well wishing and be impressed – again – at the array of colourful explosions. They are impressive, though. We silently decide not to cross our hands and sing Burn’s Auld Lang Syne and not long after do we decide to sleep. The third of us has been sleeping all night in his bed, occasionally flinching at the sound of cheap anti-climatic fireworks that one neighbour thinks is a good idea to buy.