Days between Christmas and New Year’s Day can have a timelessness, what with streets emptier than before or after the holidays, schedules disrupted and kids at home or away.

Today I’m home to write about race riots and artisans in a mountain village, and ostensibly nothing is commonly held true between the two.

The disorientation of these days helps a little with the writing because I can place myself in the observation rather than be distracted by routine demands or pleasures.

Whatever else happens, I’m filling up the hours with cooking, too: Black truffle risotto, fondue, fish, leg of Icelandic lamb.

It’s lovely though to feel as if I’m falling through time and space weightless.