Please also note all work is work in progress. See 'apologia'

First

Vivian was feeling surprisingly mellow, not drunk, not in his estimation remotely drunk, but in the kind of cushioned haze that he suspected his ancestors had spent the 15th to 18th centuries in - beer being cheaper and more common than clean water. Or did you get immune to the effects of beer if that was all there was?
It was probably time to stop drinking, which would require effort. This was Edinburgh. 31st December 1999 at eleven - he checked his watch - eleven fifty seven and so many seconds and complete strangers kept passing him drinks.
It occurred to him briefly that if he'd ever wanted to perpetrate a random mass poisoning this was his best opportunity. And what about disease? Someone jostled his arm, interrupting his chain of thought and holding out a can of Pilsner. 'Pass it on.' He took an absent-minded swig before doing so.
'Thanks.' The young woman who took it had a slight South London accent. He'd been trying not to notice her for some time, apart from to pass or receive drinks, but he couldn't help but notice that she seemed to be alone, as was he, and that she was a little below average height, slight and dark haired. He wondered if she too had been stood up and, for the third time, his wayward brain unfolded a brief fantasy of the two of them falling into conversation, going back to her hotel room, spending the next few days together.
He crushed it ruthlessly, women were not on the agenda right now. Not so soon after Stacey, presumably in Rome now with her jut-jawed American. What time would they get midnight in Rome he wondered. What time in Edinburgh should he get jealous of them kissing and starting the millennium as they meant to go on?
He wondered if he should try to strike up a conversation - that would show Stacey - with the brunette. Always so easy in films or fantasies. He couldn't think of a single thing to say except 'What are you thinking of doing for the next one?' She'd think he was barmy.
'Ten, nine, eight..' the chanting broke in on his thoughts and he looked up, half startled, at the castle. A New Year, New resolutions, a New Start. Like finding somewhere to sleep tonight he thought. That'd be a start.

He ended up phoning his father - fifty miles away but at least in the same country - to arrange for someone to pick him up. It had to be his aunt Grace, the only one sober, having signed the pledge years before, lord alone knew why since she'd only ever had a glass at Burns night or Christmas.
The Brunette had been collected not long after midnight by a group of friends and relations with party hats and a last bottle of champagne that they had put off opening until they found her, thus confirming Vivian's gloomy conviction that he was the only person unwanted this millennium. He tried to share his thoughts with his aunt - prompted to indiscretion by the alcohol, but she just got snappish.
'Far better off without.' she said bluntly. 'Less nonsense or I'll put you out on the pavement.' This sounded so like something she might say to the cat that Vivian started laughing and the rest of the journey passed easily enough. 'Have you got a piece of coal?' She demanded as they pulled up. 'If you're the first foot you ought to have a piece of coal.' Vivian, who had always considered this an English tradition and stupid but who was still grateful for his left, apologised, went in, said hello to his father, shook hands all round and fell, thankfully, in to bed.

Sophie, the woman he had noticed, was laying in a sleeping bag on a friend’s floor almost in the centre of Edinburgh.
The sleeping bag was nylon and prickly, forcing her to wear pyjamas, and she could think of nothing less sexy that her current position - and yet she was thinking of sex. Chiefly at the moment she was thinking of the amount of sweat two people could work up having sex in this sleeping bag. Of hard male flesh, warm and dripping with its own moisture. Made comfortably uninhibited by alcohol, she snuggled down in her sleeping bag and fantasised.

Vivian woke to porridge, eggs toast and tea. Not usually a big eater - he never really felt hungry - he made a good breakfast this morning chiefly to soak up the alcohol, which reassured Grace that at least he wasn't going to waste away pining, and he spent the next few days of his holiday catching up with friends and family and taking the dogs for walks, which was therapeutic and meant he didn't have to go back and face his empty flat.