That damn door needs oiling, mending, painting, has needed those things for a long time, too long, 'cos nothing ain't going to bring back the days of good harvests when the bales of hay were stacked high in the bar and it wasn't just birds that roosted in there. Push the door harder and you'll catch an echo of the laughter. The motes of dust will be dancing phantoms, the smell will drag you back to the glory days and for a moment your heart will lift and you'll stretch out your hands, but…

An old woman sits in a chair. Five times a day someone comes in to wheel her to the loo and wipe her bottom. She's given food and she does eat it sometimes, but other times she can't be bothered, any more than she can be bothered to talk to people who come to visit. This includes her daughter, who has driven 120 miles to see her, and to whom she doesn't even give a smile.

The woman's heart is strong and she could live for years. Well, exist.

The fish rose out of the water. It's jaws were closed, but the sheer blue bulk of it was terrifying as it slid towards me over the tiles. And so fast.  As happens in dreams, the scene shifted before the fish could get me.

It wasn't the only thing threatening me in the night and I'm surprised I didn't scream the house down.

I suppose I could put that fish in a story, but I'd rather have pleasant dreams.

I took a photograph of a star. Look into the light. What do you see? There's sadness and joy ahead, but none of us knows what, where, when. Embrace the new year. That's what I aim to…