Not the sound of stars, but Christmas lights imitating them. I used to hate December. But now all my memories of arguments and drink and loneliness have been replaced by a BBC production of Dickens. Mulled wine. The smell of cloves. Roaring log fires. Girls in pink, fur-trimmed skaters outfits. Stolen kisses on thin ice. Warm glows and seeing the error of your ways. Everything viewed through gently falling snowflakes. A world where people can change.