It's a bit difficult to talk about Christmas now that all the pine needles have been sucked up by an increasingly reluctant vacuum cleaner, the nut bits have been prised out of the sofa and only one box of 'Eat Me' dates remains (although who actually ate the other one will stay a mystery)

Everything went well. The turkey was cooked through, the stuffing only caught fire at the back of the oven a teeny bit and the sprouts were crisp but lacking chestnuts because I forgot them.

Most of us suffered from at least one night of the long burp and at least one person blamed 'something I ate' on chronic indigestion which couldn't possibly have been caused by drinking three Tia Marias followed by a large Bailey's and Ice and a cherry brandy frapéé.

And oh yes, I proved to myself yet again that cramming Christmas present buying into a 45 minute spree on Christmas Eve really does work - although my daughter wasn't entirely enamoured with the infra-red electric guitar I bought my grandson.

The major success however was a repeat of last year's embargo (brought about and supervised by my daughters) on drinking anything alcoholic until the last vegetable had been cooked to perfection and the gravy was ready. This is because they know that in the past I have had a propensity to fall into the chestnut stuffing far too early in the proceedings.

And so to the millennium celebrations.

I have been fascinated by the television programmes about the construction of the Dome and its accompanying extravaganzas.

It proved yet again that no matter how much money you spend, no matter how many so-called 'experts' you bring in, no matter how many meetings you have, it is still possible to have a series of giant, and please excuse the very apt expression, cock-ups.

In a way it is extremely comforting to know that absolutely nobody is perfect, although to judge from some of the efforts in other countries they were further up the perfect tree than we were by many a branch.

On New Year's Eve, having managed to work myself back into something of a party spirit, I cooked up a spread of curries to warm the guests and in between watching the millennium on television being greeted in one country after another, we enjoyed a family evening.

Then we all, including the four children who had been allowed to stay up, trotted down to the centre of town to mingle with others for the finalé.

Or at least that was the plan.

In the words of my ten-year-old grandson Sam, who now wants to be a journalist and who wrote me little report afterwards ' the family arrived in the centre of the town wondering if they were in the right place at the right time.'.

At 11.40pm when we got to the centre of Callington there were two teenagers and a stray dog and then the dog went home.

Far be it from me to criticise the town in which I enjoy living, but not a lot of effort had gone into welcoming the year 2000.

While Liskeard had ram roast, music and a merry gathering, Looe had its traditional wild night of fancy dress and festivities, and Saltash managed to attract 7,000 people to a splendid night of fireworks, musical entertainment and community singing, I think we could have done better than two youngsters and a mongrel: And one family group, us, clutching plastic cups and bottles of champagne, feeling rather silly.

In the end we were saved by a lively bunch of people who spilled out of the Bull's Head and the Old Clink, and from a party at the school.

We should all be grateful to the man who had brought along half a dozen fireworks which he let off on the stroke of midnight. To the boys and girls in fancy dress. To the church bellringers who were in the tower ringing their hearts away, and to the good natured group of people who eventually numbered around 100.

Oh yes, and to the bloke dressed as a fairy who livened things up no end. One has to admire anybody who walks the streets at midnight dressed in a pink tutu, but I suppose when you're over six feet and own a lot of muscles nobody would dream of making any unkind remarks.

Anyway, thanks to this impromptu gathering which owed nothing whatsoever to civic planning, we toasted the new year in, then walked home in the drizzle, shouting greetings to all we passed along the way.

So now it's the Year 2000, a biggie, and so we need bigger resolutions.

I'm contemplating giving up smoking as one of them.

Hold on - I said 'contemplating'. Contemplation can take some time, so don't print the T-shirts yet. And nagging won't help.

Nor will comments like the gentleman who saw me smoking outside the office one day. 'Not many smokers left now', he said cheerily. 'No', I said, thinking he might be a comrade in arms. 'They're all dead', he said, less cheerily as he walked off.

So I'm contemplating . . .