‘At last,’ the old man, lying on his deathbed, said to the figure sitting next to him who was holding his hand, ’It’s nearly over.’

‘Yes it is,’ the figure responded, ‘Now tell me, what are you going to miss the most?’

‘Oh?’ The dying man was somewhat surprised by a question such as this, given the situation. Yet, as his mind began to form an answer the extreme weariness in his face began to shift. The grey skin that stretched taut and dry on his now-boney cheeks coloured. His eyes opened in their darkened sockets and, yes, for a moment they sparkled, bright and warm, as they used to do. He tugged his hand from that of his bedside companion and, lifting it up, slowly fingered his beard, as he always did when he was thinking or when he was answering a letter.  ‘Miss? Now what shall I miss? I’ll miss nature, of course. I'll miss the kiss of the wind on my face, for example. I’ll miss the sweeping grace of a flight of birds in the sky. I’ll miss the living, shifting branches of the trees. I'll miss the great quietude of the night, and the restless pulsing of the shimmering sea, and I’ll especially miss the sounds of children playing, shouting, running, laughing. Yes. These are things I will miss.’

‘You see. You see. There were good things in your life. There were. And you, well you always manage to keep optimistic, to look on the bright side. I see that in you here, now.”

As soon as he said it he realised that this impulsive remark was really crass. When will I learn to hold back, he thought. Tell any honest person they are always good and they will question it. They will turn their minds to things that they have done badly or wrongly. Well, here it's no different. The old man sees the duplicity in my comment, even if he knows it was done to cheer him up before he pegs it. For goodness’ sake, I should know that spotting dissimulation, recognising pretence - that's what the old fellow is actually good at.

The old man’s face shrank and he sank back onto his pillow. His eyes closed, screwed tight. 'You just don’t know,' he sighed, 'You and your lot really don’t understand, do you? The horror. The mass of suffering at my start and still now, and it’ll go on, you know, into the future.' The image of a small Syrian boy, alone, drowned, lying face down in the sand, on a Grecian beach, flashed across his mind. 'In the name of what? The absurd bigotry bred out of a need to have no unanswered questions about yourself or the world or the gods. Oh, and not just the constant warring, but the selfishness and acquisitiveness everywhere.’ 

‘Hey! Hey! Careful what you say, now. He’s already here. He’s arrived. You don’t want to upset him at the start of his journey, now do you? Take hold of my hand.’ 

The old man did as he was told. He now opened his eyes. In front of him was the baby, grinning and gurgling and raising its chubby hand towards him. The old man’s heart melted. He could not, must not, burden the child with his gloom. He simply said, “Go. Get on with it, 2016, have a good one.’ 

‘I’m looking forward to it. Goodbye 2015. And thank you,” the new-born child replied happily. 

But the old man could no longer hear.

The figure who had been holding his hand, who you may know as Bacchus, and who is also known as  Dionysus, carefully removed the soul from out of the dead old body of the year. 'Come on then, Santa, for that's what they call you these days. Come,' he said, and he gently held the soul and guided it away, far away, to where it might finally find rest. This time the God of Revelry was determined that he would put in a word (to those gods who sort out these things) about how they should really try to go a bit more easy on humanity. Well, sometimes they listened.