There’s a village in the county of Cheerishire which goes by the jolly name of Much-Giggling–in-the-Meadow. Imagine the lid of a chocolate box adorned with a picture of a street lined with thatched cottages, whisps of smoke curling from their rustic chimney stacks and a fox looking over its shoulder, standing beside a garden stuffed full of roses and gladioli. This impression could not be further apart from reality!
Now clear your mind of that idyllic scene and imagine instead a scruffy street lined with dilapidated cottages and a couple of broken down cars propped up on bricks. The meadow is no more than a patch of rubbish strewn wasteland with a rusty old caravan sitting lopsidedly at one end. Instead of Freddy the fox, you’ll usually find a mangy mogrel cocking its leg on the crumbling gatepost of the disused church.
If you were by accident to find yourself in this ramshackle backwater (it would be by accident since the road leads nowhere) your first inclination would be to turn and make a speedy exit! And if you where to be there on New Years Eve (now that would be a mistake!) your ears would be filled with the most unexpected sound. Not exactly giggling as the name of the place suggests, but raucous laughter! And it would be assaulting your ears from the direction of the pub (or the boozer as the locals call it). Don’t ask me what this decrepit hostelry is called. The sign fell down years ago and rumour has it that it fell on the head of the one resident who actual lived there by choice, killing him. An outsider. You see, it’s close knit community and it’s said that the village folk are all related to one another. I have to tell you, they are a somewhat unattractive bunch, dare I say as a result of their preference for inbreeding. I should add that claims made about the inhabitants cover all kinds of anomalous behaviour, what is fact and what is fabrication I know not.
One thing however is known to be a fact, and it’s to do with the strange tradition that takes place at the aforementioned pub each New Year’s Eve. For whilst most of us are coming up with objectives and intentions aimed to improve ourselves, at least for the first few weeks of the year, the population of MGitM actually submit lists of anti-resolutions; things they are determined not to do in the year ahead. And they clearly derive great pleasure from this strange practice. Needless to say no one from without has ever witnessed this odd tradition, but it’s quite obvious that they are determined not to make the place more attractive, they definitely don’t want visitors and people looking for a rural retreat are unquestionably to be turned on their heels and driven away immediately. What else I know not.
At least on one night of the year the wretched dwellers actually get to let their hair down. That is of course until the day someone makes an anti-resolution which states that never again will anyone have a good time on New Year’s Eve.
Written for (Fiction)Friday prompt 'anti resolutions'