quiet, the Christmas festivities are over.

The nightmare of numbers did not repeat itself, now there are strange and absolutely not logical sequences of people in groups, in corridors. There is no connection to reality. That is the stuff that dreams must be made from.

But the headband has gone and the pressure on the chest is relaxed a bit. Take a deep breath, coughing is painful, wait take another, there is no coughing and the pain is gone.

Things are getting better.

Get up, go to the bathroom, wait till the water from the tap runs hot, wash the face, put shaving cream over the stubble, and use the old razor to shave away four days of growth. It will never be enough to be a beard, but enough to be an untidy nuisance. Go back to bed, sleep the rest of the time till dawn.

Rubbish, it is half past nine, the son comes in, hopeful of going to the cafe. Say okay.

Then walk on down to the cafe around the corner, the small traditional bakers shop, supplying it's old customers and new ones too. Sit at the table, discussing the methods of computer game marketing, the sly ways of getting people to pay for a product that they think they are getting free.

And when we are finished, stack the cups and plates and leave them on the counter.

Say goodbye and go.

There is a market in the old town, a smell of fresh cheeses and fruit. It is expensive, but the products are good. It is cold, and the visitors are sparse.

The whole town is quiet, the Christmas festivities are over.