A whole month has passed by. The constellations have shifted yet again as the stars reposition themselves for their final act of the year.
This year's nativity was led by an enormous, flapping tin foil star, far too flimsy to support the multitude of wishes bestowed on it.
New year's eve seems an appropriate time to contemplate a new diary so I spent some time today flicking through page after page of blankness stretching months into the future. This blankness mirrored the imaginary pages of nothingness that stretch back into the past, so I placed it back on the shelf, squeezed between a collection of fairy tales and other people's autobiographies. I secured them with book ends, two Grimm patriarchs that sit telling each other monstrous fairy tales. As I listened I was interrupted by Batboy.
"Mummy, I know why sometimes wishes don't come true"
"Yeah, sometimes when you wish on the first star you don't realise it's actually the second, or third, and you actually missed the first"
"Oh, yes I'm sure you're right"