It's all very well sitting in a tropical paradise in another hemisphere with a caipirinha in one hand and a piece of shaved churrasco in the other, but time passes slowly when you are waiting for it to be midnight.
In the past days we've been up country to my friend's facienda, driven down through rivers and salt flats and along miles and miles of beaches through miles and miles of palm trees with a gaucho riding ahead of us to open the gates.
We've drunk coconut milk brought to us by a small boy who climbed up a spindly palm with a machete in one hand and then hung upside down by his feet to show off afterwards. We've been into Salvador, guided by the supersuave Gilvan who was a previous Lambada champion (and who will wiggle his shoulders at any excuse) where I managed to trip over some scaffolding and lose both my dignity and most of the skin off my right leg.
We've had a capoiera troup come to the house and perform for us (without underpants I couldn't help but notice), had a meal cooked for us by Salvador's most famous cook, the ebullient Dada, who brought enough food to feed a battalion and then later sang for us.
Gerry and I have performed a Beatles' medley (those caipirinhas are strong), we've romped in the waves, floated in the pool, eaten every conceivable sort of tropical fruit, been exorcised by the anointment of herbs and, bizarrely, popcorn.
And now it's only ten thirty on New Year's Eve and we're all yawning our heads off.
I suggest a game. Each of us writes a series of names down on scraps of paper and we take turns each at guessing them.
'But how will we know who they are? We don't know the same people,' says Socrates.
'That's the point, it's more fun if we don't because you have to try and act it out like charades.'
(I know, I know - I'm alone in the universe where people love charades, but sod off - I'm happy.)
Everybody is sufficiently bored to scribble furiously. The men go first.
The first clue is pulled out and Socrates points at Mr Audrey.
'Mr Audrey,' shouts his team of merry men, triumphantly.
Then he points at Audrey.
'Audrey' shouts his team.
'No pointing!' I yell sternly.
'Audrey's daughter,' says Socrates.
Another point.
It quickly becomes evident that many of those present have simply written down Audrey's family members. We get her son, her other son, her mother, her nephew, all her friends (except those of us present) and Mr Audrey's mother.
The game isn't going well. Don't these fricking captains of industry, financial giants of American commerce and corporate movers and shakers have any ruddy imagination? They can make a million before breakfast but they can't come up with even Donald Trump?
Because of the women, the level is raised somewhat. Suddenly we're on to Gertrude Stein, David Beckham, Karl Marx, Barbara Streisand, Glennys Johns, Steven Sondheim (okay, some of the men are gay but we single women try to keep that hidden, pretending that we've picked up a couple of gigolos on the beach), and then cheating begins. The financial giant appears to have the handwriting of a chimp and the other men keep trying to slip his names back into the basket because they can't read it. Nobody knows who Ronaldo is (as I said, they are gay) even when the clue was the clown in the McDonald's ad, and so his name is also surreptitiously slipped back into the mix. Those men hate to lose and quibble about every point, but still we women are winning 65 to 12 when, mercifully, just in time to save their pride, it's time.
We load up with white flowers and all dressed in white we stroll down to the beach to mingle with the other hundred or so other white clad people assembled there and wait for the fireworks to go off along the coast as the signal to walk into the sea, jump over the waves and give our offerings to Yemanja, goddess of the sea.
Yemanja doesn't seem to think much of them and rapidly spits them right back out again.
But we're still hoping that all our wishes come true.
We go back to the house we gather at the pool eat manioc cheese balls, open some champagne and have the first of many toasts, and the game is never mentioned again.
In Scotland, three hours earlier, there's a man somewhere, pissed, huddled outside in the snow holding a bottle of whisky, a black bun and a piece of coal waiting for the bells so that he can knock on the door and be the 'first foot'. In Brazil, we decide to have a dip in the pool. It's warmer than most of the baths I had until I was at least 25.
Stupid, stupid, northerners.
