It was a dark, dark night.

When I was a small child, for some reason I couldn’t get enough of this book about skeletons. I’m fairly sure there’s a cassette of me reciting it somewhere in my parents’ house, which I can probably never listen to again given that the last time I had access to a cassette player was in the tiny purple car I drove about eight years ago. This recording probably violates all sorts of publication laws too, so it won’t be any huge loss to the world of elocution.

I always liked a dark, dark night, and I still do. I don’t mind the clocks changing, or the nights drawing in. I loved the cosy evenings in front of a pretend gas fire in our old house, and once we manage to get around to hanging some curtains and getting some wood for our stove I’ll love them in this house too. Maybe my love for winter is connected to my time of birth, thirty five years ago tomorrow. Maybe it’s also because Christmas is my absolute favourite time of year. Maybe it’s because a dark, dark night reminds me of scary yet safe times in my childhood.

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It was a dark, dark night.

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