Deep in the north, beyond the withered arm of the M1, there is a town where the people catch stars out of the sea, a silent, somnolent market settlement sagging onto a barricade of pebbles that line up in loose file against the dark mongol waves. And every new years day, the people head out in fleets of dinghies and mute anticipation, and dip rods of slow silver under the diaphanous bleakness. And within the same minute up they spring, cold and white and terrified like mad geese in the eccles cake purple night, before they are placed inside of heavy jars and ferried back to hum in basements or dangle like bangles off the angles of cornershops through the year. The star fishermen don’t make a big deal of it, if you ask them why they do it, they’ll shrug and say ’”tis a bloody job”, and the town stays sleeping off the edge of the damp downs its precious cargo hidden from genocidal eyes. And there are women in that town with bosoms like nebula clouds, lilting between pubs in the maze of winter, spangled in leopard print flags and chuckles, and necklaces made of burning hydrogen that... (read more)