My mates and I ushered in 2018 in a way I've decided I'll bring in every New Year from now on: completely, unflinchingly nude. No, we weren't involved in some satanic, naked, moonlit, pagan ritual (although that sounds potentially fun and I commend you if this is how you celebrated). No, we were very wholesome. Not sexual whatsoever. Or, at least, not that I can remember. Okay, look, we were pretty drunk.

But once the kids were tucked into bed and sleeping, we choofed down to the nearby beach, peeled off our clothes, ran into the waves screaming and roared our way through the countdown together in saltwater.

Illustration by Simon Letch.

Prior to this, I'd always hated New Year's Eve. It had always made me feel melancholy, serious and pensive, as if I were a moody teenager who has just discovered philosophy. Now I know my New Years' celebrations had just been missing key ingredients. Like laughter.

It's funny, for most of my life you would never have caught me naked around other people, ever. I was that kid in pool change rooms and locker rooms who would construct an elaborate niqab-burqa-ish-tent-hut thing with my towel, just so I could slip off my togs and get into my undies without anyone seeing anything. Mostly it was because I didn't want anyone noticing my skinny-as-a-rake body.