I must read Dickens with a slight wilful capriciousness if I can manage it, for the holidays. It's a bit of a ritual with me. The British novelist's tales symbolised by conjecture, riddles and adventure, now merge with hazy visions of Sherlock Holmes chocolate box pictures, sleepy taverns, inns and dirty London streets.

I am mesmerised, enchanted and remember even the classic disgruntled Scrooge with a tender nostalgia.

Next year, I must tackle Charles Dickens and all of his merry pals like Mrs. Elizabeth Gaskell, with the pleas of a lost friend. I want to catch their quaint history for my longing burnished heart.

And now at last, I am in the mood.

Perhaps it was a cultivation for literature from young, English storybooks and the like. Those temperemental Irish nuns in the Convent and also my own friends did not help matters.

My first real schoolfriend was British. Her name was Cherry. She was freckled-faced and blonde. We played skipping ropes and Brownie games a whole year together. Then she would return to England.

Later, when I visited and lived in Australia & Europe, I would be promptly satisfied, the exploration of my dreams not at all distasteful. I must have held on to my childhood desires for the longest time.

I also like thrillers and translated stories of sly French sleuths at this time of year. Please don't ask me why. It's all feels strangely festive and Christmassy.

Now that I have rediscovered myself through writing, know who I am and where I'm going, hopefully, it's a lamplit path for me in 2007. All I ask is to see the road.

As long too, as I repeatedly return to my old love for the English classics, I know I'll be alright.