Inside a regular, red-brick house hangs a calendar; an icicle, dripping away the new year.
The air echoes with bells striking midnight, voices singing Auld Lang Syne and the murmur of sleep from upstairs. But the remnants of last year still wait to be tidied up; empty bottles huddle together, streamers have wound themselves into multi-coloured tangles on the wooden floor, and board games, half out of their boxes, pull silly faces from the table.
The calendar hangs above it all. Its clean pages like the first snow, ready for new footprints; waiting to be filled with this year’s choices.