Today, the 6th of January, is a day of many wonders. As you can see, our rising sun was a glorious moon, cast like a silver coin above the harbour. This is a day of differences, great and small. Today some can at last celebrate as the one on which the animals witnessed a wondrous birth; others mark it as the day on which mysterious travellers pushed the ox and ass aside in order to peer at the wonder for themselves; others interpret epiphany still more symbolically, opening the ice, diving into the Jordan, replaying rebirth and renewal in baptismal ceremonies.  As divers into the waves, that is our choice. Here it is a quiet day in weather terms and quiet here at home, resting by the fire, the place newly straightened, the decor freshened up: only the intense, intoxicating hyacinths throw the ordinariness into relief. Throughout these dramatic and exhausting times, I have played my part with faithful warmth, grasped and grasping, flopping in a furry bundle into Kemo Sabe’s arms, whatever time of day I’m gathered up. As the year turns in this public way, we Dickens Dogs cling to our simple roles. Barnaby jumps up in joy for his daily yoghurt, his tail knocking everything flying. Newman farts quietly but persistently as he sits lovingly alongside. Me? Head out of the catflap come bedtime, I look above in hope but clouds have spoilt my chance of seeing a promised meteor or two. Still, this little magus is holding on for the month’s second supermoon, brought in with the next spring tide. We will have to wait until the end of January for that. Isn’t life full of wondrous things?