New Year, by Peter Shilston

Brian awoke to see weak daylight creeping through the window. Sheer force of habit meant that he always woke up at the same time every day, and it was only after a few seconds the he realized that it was New Year’s Day, and he was entitled to a little extra lie-in. Not that this day would be particularly special: he knew exactly what was going to happen. Certain people would wish him a “Happy New Year”, and he would wish the same to them: others he would attempt to avoid. After breakfast he would have a stroll outside. He always tried to walk round the garden unless the weather was absolutely foul: not that there would be anything much to see there at this time of year, but he could at least reflect that in a few weeks little green shoots would be emerging from the soil. And maybe he would see a few birds come down for the crumbs that he always scattered. Then for the rest of the day he would read and watch television, and maybe play the odd game of table tennis or pool with his mates. In fact, it would be a day much like any other. The next day was just as predictable, and the one after that. Another year in his life had ended, another was beginning.

   The sheer sameness of each day, and each week, might have preyed upon some minds, but Brian had become accustomed to it, and it no longer bothered him. In a way, the unchanging routine that stretched for years into the past, and ahead into the future, was quite reassuring, and saved him having to think too much. Though of course, he reflected, there could be some major change lurking in the coming year, something beyond his control, which would upset all his routines. They might even decide to transfer him to another prison.