One more turkey sandwich. This month's Heathen Winterfest has seen us dip into a rich vein of locally sourced produce, bought in damp and rainy farm shop barns and rickety butcher shops. No electronic tills, tags or reward points were used in the making of these communal meals but some animals and root vegetables were seriously damaged. They gave their lives for curry and the twin births of those seasonal cultural icons Jesus and Santa. It's as if we'd suddenly caught onto the old Fife Diet experiment and for a brief moment tried to take the non-global approach to life seriously. I suppose we run the risk of being picketed by irate Tesco shareholders, Zombie economists or active members of the Conservative Party. As if any of them gave an ounce of seasonal stuffing about our paltry consumption levels, intolerance to white sugar or the mud on our mock Wellingtons. So here we are, burning dried logs, living the outlaw life on the fringes of society and playing Scrabble, it's a kind of life I'd always dreamed off experiencing. Ignoring TV schedules, high street sales and shopping, reviews of whatever year it was and idiot news, listening to Psychedelic Pill and chasing strange cats from their squatter beds under Christmas trees, squishing through the chemical run off from some vast fields, fixing doors and being hypnotised by touchy feely colouring in schedules and warm alcohol. Time for another turkey sandwich and getting into things without having to explain.