I was traversing the stink bridge. Navigating my way over, or was it under, the amorphous space time continuum gap between Christmas Day and New Year sandwiched together like old leftover cuts of turkey meat and a final syringe hit of soured cranberry sauce.

Outside the world was beckoning, like the seagull’s caw cawing outside the window, as the fading dulcet tones of the recently departed Chris Rea echoed round like a lingering afterthought. Another fallen soldier from the seasonal frontline. A few more shiny pound coins in the festive royalty’s jukebox from the past to the present, to the future.

Beyond the window, the morning sun seemed to be broadcasting its own cryptic light language message of the day’s hidden potential, when inside the darkened lounge the glow was beginning to dull on the Christmas tree baubles like the former shine on an aged, old cricket ball.

But those homemade mince pies and quarter bottle of Irish cream, deposited in a passing grey cloud of visiting relatives, weren’t going to consume themselves, so I flicked on the electric kettle for a strange brew accompaniment to kick-start the day.