There is one time of year, every year, guaranteed to find me with tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat. Not because of any great grief or disaster for the most part – but because it’s a moment where I inevitably find myself contemplating the course of my life, and most importantly, the people who are travelling along with me.
When I hear those oh-so characteristic bongs from Big Ben each 31 December, as one year trips over into the next, I feel time slipping through my fingers in a way that is far more visceral and tangible than in the normal course of my life. I am reminded that my time here is limited; I am reminded of the importance, however clichéd, of making the