New Year's Day

They died fifteen years apart, both on January 1st - new years day.
They probably toasted New Year as everyone does, celebrating midnight
with a glass of champagne, looking forward to the New Year, pledging to
give up smoking or get fit. But unlike the rest of us, they had a
reason for not keeping their resolution.

When my grandfather died, I was eleven. He coughed himself to death in
the room next to me. The main feeling then was fear. I remember
praying, despite my lack of religion, hoping that god would take me
instead of him. My grandfather was the nicest man in the world; he
genuinely dressed up as Father Christmas for the local orphans at
Christmas. You don't expect people like that to really exist. He was a
story-teller, spinning tales about Albert the pixie who lived in his
garden in the wishing well. I would leave money for Albert and my
grandfather would tell me to turn round with my eyes closed three times
to make a wish. When I looked back, the money would be gone and I'd
know my wish would come true.

He taught me to love reading and explore other worlds. When I was
small, he used to read me the 'Bluebird of Happiness' - a beautiful
story explaining that happiness is wherever you look for it. As I got
older, he told me true stories about being a conscientious objector -
warning people 'Mein Kampf is in your libraries - read it.' He wasn't
religious but believed strongly everyone should treat others as they
want to be treated. If you were a good person, bad things didn't
happen. That made what happened even harder to understand.

For years afterwards, every new years day I would dream of him and feel
safe. This year I didn't. This year my friend died. He was killed in a
head on car crash in South Africa ONE DAY before he was due to fly back
to England. He was 27.

It makes you think when something like this happens. All of a sudden
the smallest things become important. The last thing you said to the
person ('Let me take you out to lunch in the New Year so I can flirt
with you outrageously' in this case.) The e-mail from him sat in my
in-box. Even though all it's got in it is a menu for the Christmas
lunch he had, I can't bring myself to delete it because there won't be
any more.

I went to his Christmas dinner the day before he went away on holiday.
He had about 50 friends there (how many people do you know who can
rustle up 50 friends a week before Christmas?) It was the last time all
of his friends were together. I feel honoured to have been there. I
hadn't known him as long as a lot of the people there - under a year -
although I'd heard of him for about 5 years before that because we both
worked in the same field. When I finally met him, we got on instantly.
From day one, we were talking like we'd known each other for years. He
was one of the very few nice people around.

It just seems strange that life carries on as normal - someone special
has died yet people will still be going to work, chatting in bars,
snogging, arguing, having kids, as if nothing has happened. And this
happens to millions of people every day. Everything seems to come into
perspective. All the stuff you wish you'd said when you had the chance.
All the stuff you wish you'd done.

With my grandfather it was easier to understand. He was only just
sixty, but at least he'd had a life - a chance to pursue his dreams.
He'd written a book, got married, fathered a child, told his
stories&;#8230;

With my friend it was different. You just don't expect someone that
young will die and when they do it skews the whole world order -
parents aren't supposed to outlive their kids. His mum had to phone up
his work to let them know what had happened. Those phone calls aren't
meant to happen.

The cynic in you goes out the window when this happens and you suddenly
really want to believe all of the stuff about there being an afterlife.
You want to believe in angels, paradise, eternal life. Anything else
just seems wrong.

Conversely, it makes you more convinced you need to achieve your
potential, follow your dreams - leave some mark so that when you die,
life doesn't just carry on as normal without you, excepting a few
tears.

When they sing 'Auld Lang Syne' next year, there are two people in
particular I'll be thinking about. And I'll be dreading New Year's Day
from now on. But at the same time, I'll be following my dreams, with
every bit of success in some way credited to my friend, who can no
longer follow his.