Old Father Time kicked the little guy’s pram on his way out of the building with his suitcase; he was tired and ornery. The New Year burbled and threw a rattle at him, hitting him squarely in the forehead. Old Father glared and kept moving towards the exit. “I suppose I was just as irritating,” he muttered to himself, not certain when hope had become so damn annoying. Father had just enough magic left for a round of golf or two with The Prior Years before allowing himself to be folded into memory. “Good luck,” he whispered, closing the door behind him.