When I went to bed at three, the biggest, brightest moon I’ve ever seen was shining high up in the sky, casting her preternatural silver light on all things. My garden, which has recently been described by a friend as Tim Burton-esque, which can equally be seen as either a compliment or an underhand insult, looked positively magical, its hard edges smoothed into delicate embellishments where fairies and winged unicorns frolic. I stood transfixed at the window for ages and thought of what photographers refer to as The Magic Hour, which is sunset or thereabouts, when everything and everyone looks good under the delicate light. Well, I wish I could have captured my magic hour and my magic light.
In the morning, when I woke up with a jolt as I felt I had overslept and had to return to hospital for extra antibiotics they didn’t give us at night, I found a different scene and one that the iPhone’s camera always struggles to capture. It was silver and icy, every strand of old grass coated in glittery icing sugar. Oh the beauty and joy of starting the first morning of the first day of the year in crisp cold air! The day remained quiet and monopolised by Monopoly but I didn’t mind one bit.
