The Three Little Guinea Pigs.

(Fear not, no wolves in this story; although the double-storey hutch did blow down once in a gale.)

There were fireworks early on New Year’s Eve; Vegemite, Mullet and Violet seemed not to notice, continuing to graze peacefully in the dying light of 2023. 

It was only about 9 p.m.; the trend of recent years seems to have been fire off the early Catherine Wheels, Roman Candles and Rockets to thrill the children so you can pack them off to bed before ten and get down to some serious end-of-year partying and drinking. What? Me a cynic?

Anyway, the second burst of noise and colour died out soon after eleven o’clock - at least in this geographic square bounded by Pascoe Vale and the Merri Creek to the east and west, and Fawkner and Coburg proper to its north and south respectively. I was asleep by midnight, not being the Hogmanay type. And I despise the imbecility of those countdown broadcasts.

Next morning, the guinea pig trio hit the new year enthusiastically, assisted by celebratory amounts of oaten hay, not that they seemed to notice anything different. 

They get along like old neighbours now; the two males chattering politely to the lady next door, instead of carrying on like the adrenaline-charged oafs they were at the start of this summer. Even guinea pigs can learn manners.