When I was growing up in the north of Scotland, Hogmanay (New Years Eve) was the time of year which was celebrated the most. This was common practice as for nearly 400 years, from the end of the 17th century to the 1950’s, Christmas was almost banned by the Scottish kirk as being a Popish or Catholic celebration.
So when my parents were growing up they were used to many Scots working over Christmas. The winter solstice holiday was at New Year. Known as Hogmanay, this is the time of year when family and friends get together to celebrate and exchange gifts.
New Years eve was always a time of stress in our house. My sister and I would be put to work by my Mother as she insisted on a full spring clean of our home while simultaneously stressing about the amount of food and drink required to keep everyone well fed and watered. My Father meanwhile, was focused on the business of “First footing”. 
As he was tall and dark, he was much in demand to be the first person to cross the threshold of friends and neighbours carrying the obligatory lump of coal and bottle of whisky. But he would not cross our door until we had a first foot of someone of similar bearing to bring our home the same good luck for the year ahead.
Both my parents were musical – my Dad played the guitar and my Mum any keyboard. Both were also blessed with good voices and were happy to entertain. They also drank and smoked to excess by today’s standards. All of these factors combined meant that our house was the house to come to bring in the New Year. Here you could settle in, sing a song or two, tell and listen to stories, throw your piece of coal in the fire and stagger home in the wee small hours with a belly full of ‘tattie’ soup, Cheese balls, Twiglets and a dram or two or three…
As a young girl I would sneak out of my bedroom to sit in the hallway, risking the extensive wrath of either parent so I could soak up the party atmosphere. When I was older I was permitted to stay up for a sip of a ‘Snowball’ (Advokaat and lemonade) and when older still I was eventually allowed to stay up for the entire nights revelries.
While in my twenties, I continued to seek Hogmanay celebrations to bring in the New Year. My revised tradition was to visit different European cities each year to celebrate the new start. This all stopped when I found myself unceremoniously dumped from a long-term relationship on the bells of New Year 1995.
A few years after, I moved to Uganda. By now, my new tradition was to climb East African mountains for Hogmanay. This way I enjoyed Mount Kenya and Mount Elgon before having the pleasure of watching the sun rise over Kilimanjaro as I stood with two others on the top of Mount Meru. 
This was the start of the new millennium and I was very grateful to be fortunate enough to have such a unique experience.
Having Roscoe meant that Hogmanay ceased to be our most important festive celebration and we have subsequently embraced all the tinsel and razzmatazz of Christmas.
But this year, 2015, has been a tough year for us as a family. My health issues caused by workplace bullying, stress and overwork and Craig’s increasing responsibilities means that now more than ever, we need to resurrect the Hogmanay tradition of banishing the old and looking forward to the New.
So in the best Scots tradition, I would like to end this last post of 2015 with a little light comedy.
Billy Connelly. Rangers v Celtic
Wishing you all health, happiness and prosperity throughout 2016 and beyond.
And I know this is not an area which is fashionable to discuss, despite the best efforts of Terry Pratchett, who was open about DEATH AND HIS LOVE OF CURRY.
No burning question had been left unanswered. Many responses left me scared and uncertain. There were still unknowns ahead and they could not give me definitive and accurate responses. I signed the waiver sheets, refused the sleeping pills they had prescribed and sat down to explore.
And to prove that you can never be too clever, outside my door is a poster on how to put on the hospital gown. I had studied it the night before and managed to follow all instructions completely. So, after struggling with the compression socks and eventually managing to get them on, the theatre staff are more than amused to find me keen as mustard and as pleased as punch, all dressed up but wearing my hospital gown backwards. Apparently the poster is for visitors who are visiting infected patients. Only it doesn’t say this. So I get ribbed mercilessly all the way down to theatre and have to endure the anaesthetist insisting I put the thing on the right way before he knocks me out. And, they take off my knickers. There is no dignity left.
I learn a lot from my inquisitive child.
cancer which I’ve asked in the hope that they are useful for others in similar circumstances.
And I am not without blame here either. I often do a bit of learning & development or recruitment or commercial negotiation with agencies etc. on the side, as these are skills I have from my past roles which I don’t want to lose. Sometimes I forget about the impact this has on my colleagues who already perform these roles in the working environment.
Purchased two button through night-shirts (‘arse oot hospital goons’ are to be removed as quickly as possible)
This very same evening, less than 30 miles away, my Company is hosting its Christmas party for all the Headquarters staff. It’s a final farewell bash as we are in the process of being taken over by Shell. Throughout Thursday evening my phone stays busy receiving photos and commentary from friends and colleagues attending.
This team pull together because they are patient centric. Their purpose is to tend and heal and care. They have reviews every 12 hours (start/end of each shift) against that purpose and once a week the senior medical team get together to discuss all the patients in their care and how they support them in improving their health and well-being.