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It is yet another new year. The century is nearly a quarter done, which reads as wrong. It was just 2000. We panicked about computers and terrorists and still do, so it doesn't seem sporting to pile on twenty-four more years, and I hope we won't notice.

Amber and I spent New Year's Eve quietly. We walked for noodles, which Amber assures me are a tradition. I do not care to contradict this because it results in coconut curry with chicken. Amber implies that soba noodles are necessary for the tradition. We talk of little and persist in being unusually besotted for a marriage of this tenure.
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