New Year's Eve is one of the first casualties of parenthood. I am pretty sure that I was asleep on the sofa in front of Jools Holland by 11pm last year. My own sofa. Nobody wants to babysit, nobody wants to imagine a way home across town at whatever-o-clock when the cabs are scarce and pricey . From about October I start to have little fantasies about countryside new years eves, snug and up to our eyeballs in wine and food with friends whilst the squids snooze upstairs. It's not quite raving but it's as close as I can hope for. WELL...The most magical invitation sailed our way this year - welcoming 2013 in Cornwall, staying with my awesome schoolfriend and king of comedy Felix in the most beautiful giant house with views of the sea. By the second day Pablo was trying to haggle for extra nights:
"How many more sleeps can we stay?"
"Three more."
"How about Five?"
He was in heaven with daily walks to see fairy toadstools and hunt out crabs, spot pirate ships on the horizon, play pinball, swim or watch Avengers on the giant television screen with our adoring fellow guests, who doted on him and fed him Haribo endlessly. What a treat.

New Year's Eve we did feasted on chilli and Katie D's perfect pavlova with cherries, plus my first ever (and definitely delicious) chocolate mousse. Pablo (aka Spiderman) was allowed up late to wander down to the local pub to see the pirate fancy dress competition and midnight fireworks. New Years day was pancakes, leftover puddings, swimming and a Dark Knight marathon. Nothing could be finer.