I have never known a year to take so long to get going. The atmosphere this week is like someone has pressed the pause button on 2007. The only thing to celebrate so far is the fact that you have made it alive into January. According to my catch up correspondence with friends and family, only a handful of us have actually achieved this. The happiness of knowing that my grandfather had entered the year of his 100th birthday was cut short by a call saying that he was ‘fading away’ and that I should go and see him immediately. Apart from a lack of criticism for Tony Blair, his mind seemed as fiery as ever yesterday. His body was just packing up and for no medical reason. He had asked to be examined by an independent doctor and, for a man normally very careful with his money, said he would pay the price, however high. Religious personnel were not to be allowed anywhere near his room. It was not for me to question these final decisions, but I shared his fury that such a thing as death should be allowed to happen. I ran into my dad and cousin in the Littlehampton nursing home lobby. They were talking to a nurse about doctors, using words such as ‘peaceful’ and giving out mobile phone numbers. Unable to hold on to my emotions any longer, I went into the lounge where I ended up staring at the décor which I found depressing: Chintz, a circle of upright armchairs with pieces of lace over the top, patterned carpets, a crystal vase for flowers. "Why is it always the same in these places?" I thought and then I remembered that Grandpa's house was done up in exactly the same style. An image flashed into my mind of what this room will look like in 40 years time when my generation is installed: all modular sofas, spotlights, Ikea shelving and beige carpets.