The clumsy among us will know the experience of crouching down on the floor, trying to find shards of glass after you have accidentally smashed something on someone's beautiful carpet. Just when you thought you had finished the job, a lone shard of glass glints up at you mockingly, and you're back down on your knees, harassed by the thought of some innocent bystander having a bare-foot disaster at a later date.
On New Years Eve in Cracow the clumsy man (or woman - let's not be sexist) can breathe a huge sigh of relief, as no one is going to tut-tut you for accidentally dropping your glass, bottle or any other shatterable object you may have about your person.
Indeed, this year the Market Square was so full of broken glass that finding the paving slabs themselves could be likened to a Sherlock Holmes adventure. The act of smashing your champagne bottle is positively encouraged by many Cracovians, who see it as a sign of good luck.
'Dress up like a knight' advised my goodly neighbour, 'you'll need full armour to see you through.''
When this scribbler stumbled out onto the Rynek at two in the morning, there were only a few stragglers left on Europe's largest medieval square. Just a couple of hours earlier, as many as 170, 000 souls had pressed their way to the centre of town.
A jagged carpet of green glass cloaked the floor, and the air rung out with the curiously heavenly sound of smashed champagne bottles clinking into each other. It was strikingly reminiscent of the handbells that are rung in church to signal the coming of prayers - if you closed your eyes you could almost be in the promised land. However, in reality the players of this celestial music were gloriously drunken revellers, and judging by the glazed, grinning expressions on their faces, these were clearly the guys who had lost their mates - they were now at the wandering round in circles stage.
This scribbler quickly realized that just one more drink would be enough to push himself into the realm of the friendly zombies, and that perhaps it was time to call it a night. Besides, it was no place for his long-suffering lady companion, who's delicate heels were rather ill-suited to negotiating mountains of glass. After a final glance at the batttefield, we headed home.
Miraculously, by the time that most Cracovians had levered themselves out of bed the following day (replete with horrendous hangovers) all trace of glass had vanished from the square. A crack team of heros had dispatched the lot, leaving the impression that the whole thing had been a dream.
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