Will Harris and the soundtrack to his year

I am woken from a restless night on H’s sofa not by birdsong or morning sunshine, but by the unmistakeable sound of a brass band playing the Monty Python theme tune. Da-dum da-diddle-de-dum da-dum, da-dum da-dum da-dum…

H is sitting on the chaise opposite me, wearing crumpled pyjamas and a look of weary resignation. She holds out a mug of tea. “Just another day in Paradise?” I say. “You joke, but this is a good day. Last weekend we had ‘Ghostbusters’ all through Saturday Kitchen.”

I grunt, and drink my tea. These things have become par for the course when I stay with H, who lives in a town that might have been the setting for The Hills Have Eyes 3, had the locals not eaten the location scouts and mounted their heads over the British Heart Foundation.

In the park outside, a lone bugler, having turned over two pages of his sheet music by mistake, embarks on a brave solo attempt at ‘Viva Las Vegas’.

“Outside, a lone bugler embarks on a brave solo attempt at ‘Viva Las Vegas’”

“This time last year,” I say meditatively, “I had job security and a boyfriend with an arse like two peaches on springs. Now look at me; I’m going through a redundancy process and sofa-surfing in a town once twinned with Deliverance.”

“Oh, well,” says H, breathing on her specs and cleaning them with the flap of her PJs, “tomorrow’s another day, innit.” I stare at her. “It’s 8.30am!” I shout. “Oh, stop moaning! You’ve had a great year. You got your own flat, had your photo in Gay Times, went to Downing Street. And we met Su Pollard.”

“Su Pollard? I met Neve Campbell this year, and you’re leading with Su Pollard? I met Christopher Biggins in March. Want to drop that in too? Or were you saving him for the split second before I throw myself from the platform?!”

“Oh yeah!” H grins. “A lot happens in a year, doesn’t it? Hey, remember that chav you pulled in the doorway of Domino’s Pizza?”

“That wasn’t less than a year ago, was it?” But it was. Twelve months, in the grand scheme of things, can slide past in the blink of an eye. One minute you’re popping the Nurofen on New Year’s Day, next thing you know it’s 365 days later and you’re at some party pretending to know the words to Auld Lang Syne once more. But for all our lives seem to get faster, the faster a year changes everything.

“Where do you think we’ll be this time next year?” I ask. H peers into the depths of her mug. “Together,” she says. “Still together. Other than that, you got me.” I stand up and stretch. “Right, Muttley, I’d better have a shower. Any chance of some breakfast?” I’ve got you, I think, as I leave the room. I’ve always got you. And then I begin to sing: “Da-dum da-diddle-de-dum da-dum”…