THE MIST HANGS TO THE GROUND, BLURRING ALL THE OUTLINES OF TREES AND SHRUBS AND HIDING THE DISTANT HOUSES. There was no colour on our walk, even the rosehips and berries looked drained, all their polish gone. The temperature will not rise above freezing and at three the dusk is already dimming the day. It is another chance to get on with the to do list but with several weeks of this to come there doesn’t seem to be any hurry.

I’m tired of editing the third novel. It is always hard to stop and be satisfied. I need the buzz of a new story to get me back to my 500 words a day rule. Perhaps I shall put up my new easel, a Christmas present and see if the creative energy will spark. I’ve a mind to try a portrait. Never done one before but I can always paint over it.

The rooks above the garden look like shadow puppets, jerking this way and that as they continue their nest building. I wonder if meanwhile they sleep at their old address, making do and booking the removal van a few weeks hence, planning a fresh layout or an especially soft feather bed for the eggs.

A pigeon flutters into the yews: the ground is too hard to peck for worms.

I’m cosy in my nest. The fire crackles and the windows steam up with the kettle.