I'm sure I saw a sloth last night, under the laurel in my garden, dragging its belly through the scrag-ends of the snow. I predict sloths will be big in 2011. As will tubular bandages, Beetle Drives and Pierrot chic.
It will be a year of austerity, we know that for sure. I have taken measures - the dormice plumping in the jars beneath my bed, the snail farm in the shower. Butterface is saving on stamps by hand-delivering her letters straight into my lunchbox. Even the monkey's giving up online bingo.
It will be a year of clarity and pamphlets, the year I finally win a competition in Take a Break. It's the year of the Royal Wedding and I am planning my party already. You should never miss an opportunity for high camp. It will be a gala year, you can take my word for it - a juicy, wriggling piglet of a year.
I have left out a trail of chicken nuggets for the sloth. It leads right to my front door.