Twelfth night. Spruce punctures in my shins, needles winding gleaming astroturfily out the back door, twiddling on cobwebs, under the rugs, baubles stacked like bubbles of dish-detergent in the sink corners. Scotch broth with the last of the Christmas roast lamb shredded from the knuckle.
Pluvialis on the line, eyes hurt from weird reflected flashes of herself. Books teetering in odd places, caught on seasonal tidelines with the bars of gift soap and bits of festive Australian kitsch. The handkerchief is never in the right place and I have eaten too many butter biscuits.
At Linton Zoo the lions are hugging ex-Tannenbaums with as much love as ever I festooned mine.
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