You wake in the early hours of that strange time between Christmas and New Year. The bed is warm, the world beyond is not inviting. Somewhere, far away, people are swimming with dolphins. Most of the universe is silence, but here there are one hundred mile an hour winds, ancient trees sway and groan. You find the radio and let it hold the world in order for a bit. Now impressions flood in, of nations in conflict or homes without power. But then consciousness grips you by the throat and shakes you awake. There is coffee to be made, books to be read, many small happinesses still to be found.