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I’m finding that Dickens is much less Dickensian than I’d expected. He, like Shakespeare, refuses to be his own parody.

I’m a complete sucker for the whole festive thing. And that’s why I hate a ‘Happy Xmas’.

Halloween is over, so we’ll have to wait another year before we can put bedding over our heads to scare the living daylights out of small children, hide behind the sofa from B-movie slashers, or mutilate unsuspecting jelly babies for gory cake decorations.

This is as good as it gets when the weather is on the turn. But it got better over breakfast.

They say everyone’s got a novel in them somewhere. I’m assuming they don’t mean this literally – “We’ve got the x-ray back from the lab, Miss Smith, and I can confirm that you do have a novel inside you.”