We missed the countdown in the bar because the local drug dealer was haggling with the husband over takeaway bottles of lager. The husband handed me his cigarette to hold, and your man wanted that as well. When the neighbours' kids—newcomers and immigrants—came out to look at fireworks, the husband gave them bags of crisps and cans of Club Orange. Their faces lit up when he asked for their names.

//

We'll draw a veil over distressing events of late. What is a family but a madness or a curse? What's worse, sometimes it disguises itself as kindness. Note to everyone (well, my mother): a couple's childlessness is never about you. Another note (to the mother-in-law): don't start an apology with "I'm sorry you were hurt, but..." Note to self: this heartache will pass.

//

The day had started so nicely: seams of golden light in the sky and a wren spotted in a neighbour's yard. The wren's Irish name is dreoilín. Druid's bird, little druid, the soul of the oak. The druids would read the future in the wren's flight patterns.

This one did not fly, it only fluttered, from branch to branch, a furtive thing, perhaps drab, perhaps beautiful, all eyes and pert tail and restless legs. What does that say of my near future?

Always, always, there is a longing to slip away, like the not-of-this-world creature I suspect I am. If not for the husband, if not for the dog...

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