In Roman times, on auspicious dates or before any important undertaking, one would go to a temple, and the sacrifice of a chicken would be made to the deity of your choice. The priest would then examine the entrails and you would be told of the omens for the times to come, good, bad or indifferent.
I was unable to take a chicken and kill it in the doorway of the church at the top of the road - especially not after that business with the ASBO following last year's fiasco - so I did the next best thing. And when Jimmy Carr called the Police, I, alas, was forced to resort to my third choice.
So, my first poo of 2007 tells me this: you will be firm, solid, slightly floaty, and about eight inches long; and you will get wedged sideways in the bowl when you try to flush it away. This bodes well.
This year, then, will be a double-flusher with a single-wipe, with the slightest trace of sweetcorn.
Just to be on the safe side, the whole ceremony - from the initial wiping of the stray hairs from the seat to the solemn burning of matches to mask any foul odours - has been extensively photographed and passed on to Father Hugo for independent verification.
This is going to be The Best Year Ever.