Up and down the dunes of my emotional, bare landscape. I'd love to claim it to be windswept and gloriously gloomy, but in reality it is just an ordinary, common heath of sterile dry grass and shallow pockets of water.

A pudding to make for someone else's Christmas. The last cards to hand-deliver with my red smile. Dull presents to wrap up, to look better than what's inside.

I receive a few abusive text messages, and - among them - another two come, echoed by my predictable and ordinary replies.

This is the most real Christmas I have ever lived.