One, one, one five, the future please operator. I slept under my Christmas quilt, finished at ten to midnight on Christmas Eve. Two years, stitched and abandoned, stitched and abandoned, the sewing calluses drifting in and out on my fingertips like a miniature keratinous tide of commitment. We ate National Trust and agreed New Year's had always been awful, mortality, entropy, so-what-have-you-done, the party you're not at, Jools not even live for heaven's sake but at least we have better wine now. One of us was too quiet, I thought later, but by then it was over.
Today it is windy and a thrush is working out its next move in the maple and I'm eating crumpets for lunch and toast for dinner washed down with Les Dauphins and a pointed sense of nothing in particular. The Dark is Rising under my pillow, lousy with portents, oh for the merest scraping of its ancient predestination for myself.
Marmalade and butter by the light of the porcelain cockatoo in the living room, plugged in next to the modem, would-have-been-sulphur crest cocked thoughtfully with points of LED peeping through its carven feathers. Aark, aark I say to it quietly. Happy new year.
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