Resolutions? I’ve broken a few. This year I’m doing it differently

Growing up in a Tassie hotel motel, my New Year’s Eve had a set rhythm. During the day my brother and I would fold linen napkins into crowns for the dining room, our parents whirling past as they fine-tuned the kitchen, bar, reception for the night ahead.

The band hired from the big smoke in Hobart or Launceston for a cabaret would arrive, often in a panel van. Would climb out in a cloud of sophistication and Peter Stuyvesant. Once they’d set up on the stage next to the dance floor, me and Sammy and our sisters would offer them dinks on our Honda 50s on the oval.

I’d fang around, a random bass player gripping my Crystal Cylinders windcheater as I kicked her up into third and drove through ditches to scare the passenger.

Then we’d get among it with a packed house of holidaymakers for whom staying at our east coast joint was an annual tradition. During the second set, the band played Sweet Caroline and the floor was cleared so Mum and Dad could down tools and dance together.

Midnight, everyone swayed and sang in a giant circle to Auld Lang Syne. Arms crossed and holding hands with a stranger, I’d be looking to the future already.

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Thinking about how cold the pool would be tomorrow. Worried I’d get through my Christmas gift Malory Towers box set in under a week. Making a mental note to run a daily check on both the Cherry Ripe supply in reception and the Pacific Ocean horizon for a tidal wave.

Wanting Scott Bailey, ensconced for a fortnight in rooms 15 and 16 with his family including future TV weatherman Tim, to say he’d write to me at the end of summer. Hoping I’d be discovered kicking around in a two-horse town and asked to model for Dolly magazine.

Decades of New Year’s Eves have passed since then, a handful of them fabulous, some lonely, three marked by the last heavy days of pregnancy. All have involved making a plan for the next 12 months, even if it was as sketchy as “stop buying stupid clothes” or “break sugar’s stranglehold”.