I can hear the birds now

In accordance with the traditions of my family and the lunisolar calendar, we ate our Christmas roast beef, lit the first night's candle of Hanukkah for the children, and set brandy-fire to the plum pudding which had finished re-boiling in the meantime.



I have a short and deeply satisfying stack of gifts, including Amorina Kingdon's Sing Like Fish: How Sound Rules Life Underwater (2024) and Steve Toase's Dirt Upon My Skin (2024) from my parents, Susanna Clarke's The Wood at Midwinter (2022/24) and Douglas J. Penick's The Oceans of Cruelty: Twenty-Five Tales of a Corpse-Spirit: A Retelling (2024) from rushthatspeaks, and the huge acrostic field-grimoire of Robert Macfarlane and Jackie Morris' The Lost Words (2017) from nineweaving, who snapped up its shine like one of its own magpies. spatch has a new double-layered outer garment which we are referring to as his smoking jacket even though it is technically a hoodie. Hestia slayer of textiles is enchanted with the new lichen-green towels and the twirl of red ribbon incautiously tied to the paper bag we brought them home in. I have been sent a post-latke picture of my godchild and his theyfriend. This has not been what I would call a good year, but we treasure one another within it.