After the formal New Year celebrations are over, the Old Year creeps back into our flat.  There are loose ends to tie up, plans to draw up with the New Year, work to do for a smooth handover, without all the late December pressure that demands an abrupt, unrealistic – not to mention impractically quick – change of guard.  

2024 having been the most tumultuous, eventful and stressful year I’ve ever known – I moved house and country – I am grateful for this period of adjustment.

And so 2024 and 2025 spend a few days swapping notes, negotiating agreements, defining roles, and, importantly, deciding what 2025 keeps from her predecessor and what 2024 takes away with him.  Predictably, the Old Year’s experience and wisdom is in favour of leaving behind more things than the New Year, bursting with dreams and good intentions, is willing to keep.  During the transition parley, scheduled to be completed on Twelfth Night, when 2024 can finally retire, there are things stacked up by the front door, waiting to be either removed or brought in.

“You can definitely take that away,” 2025 says, pointing at a pale grey, translucent box labelled PROCRASTINATION, containing large blocks of ice.  2024 nods, lifts the heavy box with some difficulty, and puts it outside the flat, in the corridor.  “I’ll throw that on the beach,” he says, “let it melt in the sun.”

He then comes up to me with a large, empty cardboard box.  “All right, Katia, put  all your you-know-what in here.”

I start by pulling the offending substance out of my pockets.  Smelly black gunge that sticks to my fingers as I shake my hands hard to drop it into the box.  There’s also some in my shoes, which I remove and scrape as thoroughly as I can.  The harder I try to get rid of the gunge, the more it clings to me: I can practically hear it protesting, rebelling against being expelled.

“All of it, Katia,” 2024 says gently, lifting the box to me.  “You don’t need to hold onto it any longer.”

“Think of all we can achieve when you’re free of it,” whispers 2025.

I know they’re both right, but the last remaining black gunk is hard to eject.  Meanwhile, what is already in 2024’s box is bubbling, shrieking, fighting to burst out of the box.  “Courage, just do it,” says 2024.  I finally cough up something that resembles a gooey, smelly, black fur ball, which lands into the cardboard box.  2024 quickly seals the box and sticks on it a label marked TOXIC: CONTAINS FEAR.  “And this is going straight on the fire.” 

The ordeal has left me tired, but feeling much lighter. 

The two years are now sitting at the dining table, sifting through my address book, making a list of friends and acquaintances to keep, another of those to let go of.  The list of those to give up is growing alarmingly long, leaving only a few names on the keep-list.  I protest, although my opposition sounds more like pleading.  “But I don’t want to drop all these people.  I care about them.”

“When was the last time they reached out to you?” 2025 asks, arching an eyebrow.

“I spoke to him – to her – and to her only last week –”

“Because you contacted them.  When was the last time they took the initiative to contact you?”

A feeling of overwhelming sadness radiates from my chest into my stomach, and I watch, speechless, as 2024 feeds the long list of people I’ve known, socialised with for many years, into the shredder.

“Don’t fret,” 2025 says with a wink.  “I bring you new friends.  Friendship is an action, not a state.  I bring you true friends.”

As dusk grows darker and blurs the outline of the bare branches of the linden trees outside our French windows, the handover process is all but complete.  It’s almost Twelfth Night, the time by which 2024 must leave.  All the negotiations between the Old and the New Year have so far been respectful and civilised, but now I sense growing tension and a strong disagreement over the last remaining item by the front door.  It’s a large iron trunk, rusty in places.  2025 is adamant it should go, 2024 insists it should stay.  “What’s in the trunk?” I ask.

They open it and I see that it contains my translation work.  Books in Italian, in French, and their English versions.  And books yet to be translated.  Contracts with publishers.  “Hey, you can’t take that away, 2024,” I say.  “It’s my job, my bread and butter.”

“My point exactly,” 2024 replies with a forceful nod.

“Yes, but look at how much room it takes up,” says 2025.  “There would be nowhere for me to bring this.”  She produces what is undoubtedly the most beautiful item in the flat: an oak chest, magnificently carved, with a painting of a rowan tree on the hinged lid.

“Would you like to take a peek?” 2025 says, a twinkle in the eye, sliding her finger tips under the lid and lifting it.  

The oak chest contains fountain pens, bottles of ink, and lined notebooks.  All brand-new.  There is also a large supply of drawing materials: sketching pads, fine felt-tip pens, mechanical pencils, a palette, tubes of watercolour, brushes.   My heart is suddenly filled with longing and joy.  

I know that only I can settle the argument between the Old and the New Year.  I have to decide.  I propose a compromise: “How about we store my translation work in a smaller container?”

Happy with my suggestion, 2024 immediately transfers all the books and contracts into a smaller, lighter, attractive silver box, small enough to fit on a shelf or in a corner of the room when it’s not needed.  Importantly, the oak chest with the rowan tree lid can now stay.

It’s dark outside.  It’s the twelfth and last night of Christmas, time for the Old Year to hand over power to the New.  They shake hands, with appreciation and wishes of good luck.  I hug 2024 and thank him for all the gifts, all the experiences, all the lessons he gave me.  I promise never to forget him.  He smiles at me warmly and heads out, shutting the door behind him.  I return to the living room, where 2025 is waiting for me, grinning ear to ear.  She rubs her hands together. “Right,” she says, “let’s begin.  We have much to do.”

Scribe Doll