Every year, on the anniversary of my Grandfather's death, something falls off the unit in our front room on the stroke of midnight. Every single year that we have a cabinet or shelves on the west wall of our front room, no matter where we're staying.

I spent last night, his thirtieth anniversary, nailing the shelf down & moving everything into the centre. At half past eleven, something fell down the back. Loudly. I daren't go look to see what it was.