At first I hear him, humming Auld Lang Syne. Then a shadow falls across my laptop’s screen, and I feel the weight of a powerful hand on my shoulder. His breath reeks of stale champagne when he whispers in my ear:

‘It is I, Annus Novus the Tenacious, the god of New Year’s resolutions.’

I dread these annual visits. ‘Oh, er, I was just––’

‘You haven’t forgotten your little promise, have you?’ he says, reaching over me, running his hand over my Christmas jumper then down, lower still, until it comes to rest below my belt.

‘No, no!’ I gasp.

‘Good. So, go on then – finish your pathetic little novel and try to spend less time looking at your ratings on Amazon. Understood?’

His grip tightens. I try to reply, but all I can manage is a breathless wheeze.

‘What’s that? A writer, lost for words? Bless my twelve bells, I’ve never heard the like!’

I nod my head and emit a falsetto whine.

‘Jolly good, old boy. That’s the spirit.’ He relaxes his grip just enough for me to speak, and I take my first breath in nearly a minute.

‘Please, Your . . . Januaryness.’

‘Yes, my friend?’

‘Can you let go of my testicles now?’

The bells in the church tower across the square chime the hour, and before I can say ‘Happy Hogmanay’ he is gone – well, at least for another year.

****

Happy New Year to all my friends on Goodreads.

P.