I wrote a few words, over Christmas. Not many. But a few still. Between the main festivities and the New Year. A few is better than none wouldn’t you agree? All things considered, I hadn’t expected to; my stomach was way, way beyond full, my head, confused, in an alcoholic lag – too many brandy soaked puddings and mince pies on top of glasses of red, white and fizz. After a week’s hiatus, I felt nervous; I hadn’t spoken to my characters. Would they come out to play, dance for me? They were tired, testy even, a week’s sleep evidently too long. I hoped they remembered their parts; I’d arrived at a crucial moment in their story when I had to lay down the metaphorical pen, soldier my way through the ever-growing to do list for the Yuletide celebration.