Matches burn brightly

Emmett is 44. Every morning for a month he wakes early, brews coffee, lights a fire and flicks on his laptop. This is the record of his bleary-eyed ruminations.

Fresh socks feel nice when your feet are cold. Dried roses can be mistaken for Special K in the dark. Yawns sometimes take on a life of their own. Nothing too mysterious - Emmett's happily married, with healthy children and an okay job.

Yet A Box of Matches burns bright. Bar some slightly fey stuff about a pet duck, there's writing here of a breathtaking perceptiveness and intimacy: Emmett's flu-draggled head "swivels listlessly, like a brussel sprout in boiling water", the fire is a "cheerful dog" eager to gobble your scraps.

Is that all? Does it matter? When the trivial is in such sharp focus, the bigger picture can go hang.