The terpsichorean stoats of your seemingly-endless winter are dancing across the car parks of all our dreams once again. Even now, as the year comes to a close, the structural engineers of our souls are casting doubt upon the integrity of your hidden demon-haunted abodes that lie deep within the chest freezer of all your forgotten desires. Still we do know where the frozen peas are now, and those long lost cod fillets of your soul are once more within easy reach.
Nevertheless, we still do not fully understand all the buttons on your scientific calculator and you have not put all the tins of anchovies back on the shelf in alphabetical order with all the other tinned produce. However, our cardigans are once more resplendent and proud and we have rewired the auditor who lives in the cupboard under the stairs with his pet bag of coloured pasta. We call him Nigel, although everyone knows that is not his name.
All along the skirting board of your hopes and dreams, we have painted intricate patterns dictated to us by the mystical cardboard we have gathered from the excess packaging we once held so dear, as it had been so intimate with all our most prized consumer goods. But now the cardboard grows old and limp and we no longer even have the times that it once-so proudly ensconced within its very bosom.
Still, though, at least the tinned peaches have not deserted us in this, our hour of shortbread.