I've never been a big fan of New Year's. I've had a few good ones, but mostly I preferred to keep to myself. It's not a real holiday. You don't spend it with your family, or eating chocolate. The purpose is to get as smashed as possible with as many people as possible. Sorry, but that doesn't make good sense to me. I prefer to drink alone. I have my reasons.

Ten years ago was my first Christmas without my dad. I was officially an orphan. I managed through Christmas just fine, with my friends around me. But they all had plans for New Years, so I bowed out. I had originally planned to spend it on the couch with Dick Clark and a pint of Hagen Daas. But then I got bored.

I threw on my jeans and boots, grabbed my keys, and headed for the open road. I did that a lot. I couldn't stay still; couldn't be by myself. I got it in my head that I would drive to Toronto (from Montreal). We were having a terrible cold snap, so the roads were clear and dry - no snow. I'd make it in less than five if I drove at my normal speed.

I tore along the 401 at about 140km/hr, and I remember listening to Elton John's Greatest Hits. Daniel. Over and over I listened to Daniel. That was my father's name. I drove ever faster, to escape myself and my father.

This littel drive down memory lane doesn't have a point, so don't hold your breath waiting for a punchline. I didn't have an accident. I wasn't drunk. Heck, I never even made it to Toronto due to an electrical fault in the old New Yorker. How unglamorous is that?? No, there isn't a plot to this tale. There's just Daniel and a decade.