It was in that strange pocket of time between Christmas and New Year and the small market town, which felt like it should be located near the sea, but wasn’t anywhere near it, was having its annual slumber. The ancient Mummers play had been, told its story and was gone already and it was that time when strangers in the street for a day or two gave out an extra modicum of greetings as they passed each other, as the festive decorations began to lose their meaning.

In the early hours the late bar was about to close for the few remaining stragglers, who had stumbled upon it in search of more drink, uncaring what they had spent, as they were protected by an alcoholic bubble from thinking too deeply. The tall man with the nautical beard made his way unevenly up the street towards his home, dancing to his own internal rhythms. His key knew which way to go.

The town began to draw silent deep into the night, when the only sounds were the occasional noise of a few cars in the distance and the screech of neighbourhood cats crossing paths.

In the dull grey morning the white star shone brightly from the top of the tower overlooking the sleepy town, guiding the ghostly milk float on its fanciful journey. The commuters rose at this early hour and one by one got into their cars or jumped on the bus and took their chances heading out on the busy A road…

(with apologies to Dylan – Thomas that is.)

To be continued.