Four

Eleven pipers piping. I'm on the sofa warm in the last of the Christmas-liveried little house, all winking baubles and felt, folded paper and resinous Norway spruce bottom notes. I might leave the fairy lights I put in the grate.

Hard frost this morning, small boot-shaped holes in the each puddle's ice-cover by the time I venture out into the fog well on into the afternoon on food-truck thoughts intent. I drink a too-sweet hot chocolate while the boys make my burger. Hello, I'm Xtin, I say to the nice smile salting my fries. Your reputation precedes you, he says. I hope it's 'mouthy broad', I think.

Black bare limes on the Piece's edge raining slushy drops of once-was-frost, crows arranging their feathers in the tops'ls, hoods and umbrellas, slish slosh, slish slosh.

Around the corner and back to the little house, apple tree chirruping like it's made of sparrows, blackbirds patrolling the edges of the little garden, for mine is a tiny land of plenty; braeburns and sunflower hearts, bits of cheddar and the odd bit bacon rind, leaped about like miniature pagan rites by overexcited robins if the magpies don't get it first.    

I dream of upside-down kittens pawing the air into little parcels of growly-purr, cockatoos and lorikeets tweedledeet! Tweedledoot. Tweedledeet! Tweedledoot, forests papery underfoot and the smell of salt.

I hope it snows this year.