Ring out the Old, Ring in the New

By Jacqui Wiley

Yes, yes, yes. New Year’s Eve is a perfect day to ring out the current boyfriend to be available for new love starting the next day. Decluttering I call it.

At 19, with legs up to my armpits and assets other women would pay for, and with four broken-heartened New Year’s Eve’s declutters behind me, I decided it was time to turn to rabbits – very old and very rich rabbits. The first rabbit in the headlights, I secretly stalked until I was in the right place at the right time.

It didn’t take much to win him, 80 plus and charmed to have me on his arm. I flew him up the aisle before anyone ever heard of the word ‘prenup’. Our first Christmas, he died of indigestion – I simply didn’t have Rennies in the house. At his grave on New Year’s Eve, with tear drops smearing my perfectly made-up face, I spotted another 80-year old bald rabbit gawking at me in open-mouthed fancy. His wife led him away, but I don’t let grass grow under my Stilettos.

January is the cruellest month. Three weeks in, after a hit and run, my target stood at a graveside, mourning his wife. Who was I not to comfort him? He said we should wait a year, but I told him that whoever said you can’t hurry love is a bachelor, and a month later we married. Next Christmas, he had an accident in Mount Blanc – fatal. He should have never skied down the black piste. I was so lucky I held back; I still don’t know what made me do so. I cried on the paramedic’s shoulder; I kept repeating he told me he was an experienced skier. New Year’s Eve had me at déjà vu, at a grave again, plastered in teardrops. Marriage number two gone at 21 and two thriving businesses, how would I cope?

More old rich rabbits, came but they either weren’t into commitment, didn’t see the merit in prenups or simply didn’t have seven-figure positive bank balances, so on successive New Year’s Eves they were decluttered.

At 27, 12 successive New Year’s Eve declutterings behind me, a rabbit of potential came along. He was smitten and told me he was 88 with six months to live and a prenup in his briefcase. He showed me other credentials: a fleet of Ferraris, a hotel chain and three million in petty cash. I couldn’t resist; I married him before the month was out, but he turned out to be not 88, but 78 – a gentleman should never lie about his age and if he does, he’d lie about anything – and the six months to live threatened to become six years or longer so I put him on a high salt diet for best intimacy.

Christmas night, he suddenly keeled over and died of a massive heart attack, and there I was on New Year’s Eve, déjà vu again, at a grave, my tears blotching my angelic perfect face.

Three teaming businesses, bucketing down euro. I retreated on a full world cruise to grieve with many glasses of fine champagne to console me. I had millions to live the life I deserved, having to answer to no man or no taxman. Last New Year’s Eve I quit because I had no man to dump or to die. People tell me winners never quit and quitters never win, but I don’t tell them my newly discovered insight which is: quit when you’re ahead.

After all, one can get sick of decluttering.

Jacqui Wiley is a member of Inklings Writing Group, who meet on Tuesdays at 10.50am in the Annebrook House Hotel, starting from January 9.