Today. Am embarrassment of riches. An email that makes you smile. A child who will not take off the braces and bow tie Santa brought him packed into a darling little brown leather suitcase.

It looks as if Christmas has exploded in the house and I am sitting in it’s detritus, amongst pulled crackers and party popper streamers wondering if it matters if presents are not absorbed into our lives for another day or two, but are instead left to be cooed over and treasured for another twenty four hours, while my head remains consumed by all things festive, the recipe for a leftover Christmas pie and thoughts of something entirely new. Something I want badly.

It is midday and I am wearing a really silly batman nightie I found in my stocking. I have rubbed violet hand cream into my hands and noticed with alarm, how very often I have been nibbling my nails lately. Nerves or something chewing at my fingers. There are books to be read. A lovely stack of real paper and pretty pictures. A new coffee machine, cosy, snuggly slippers and and a butter knife, engraved with the legend, spread the love

Boxing day has always been a good day. The calm after the storm. A day of relief and the vague thump of pink champagne still dancing in my veins. I am full of words. Questions. E.E.Cummings and quotes like this one from Rumi: Respond to every call that excites your spirit. And the cinnamon rolls I have devoured for breakfast, muttering under my breath about the size of my thighs and shoving another one in as I resolve to give them their marching orders. Tomorrow. Or next year. The one that will arrive in five days.

Because isn’t it true that there is a New Year upon us and we cannot know what it will bring if we do not stand in front of a magic mirror and study who we are and who we are becoming? Am I the same woman I was when I wrote this long, long list of things that make me happy? Does this list of one hundred tiny pleasures still float my silly boat? Does having a new grown-up hairdo mean that I have to grow up the rest of me? Is it time to grow up? Or to get botox and resolve to stick at forty one for the rest of my life?

I am dwelling on tomorrow. Writing lists. Wishing all that Neil Gaiman wished for all of us, for myself, and of course for you.

May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you’re wonderful, and don’t forget to make some art — write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.

Perhaps then I will surprise myself. Kiss someone who thinks I’m wonderful and oh please, make some art.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Happy Boxing day Sweetie, a day for contemplation, exhaustion and the ubiquitous festive hangover. All is exactly as it should be.