“When I left Yorkshire, November was going strong; by the time I returned it was in its dying days, about to tilt into December. December gives me headaches and diminishes my already small appetite. It makes me restless in my reading. It keeps me awake at night with its damp, chilly darkness. There is a clock inside me that starts to tick on the first of December, measuring the days, the hours and the minutes, counting down to a certain day, the anniversary of the day my life was made and then unmade: my birthday. I do not like December.” (Diane Setterfield, The Thirteenth Tale)
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