I wouldn't sail this ship if I were you
1. January: The magnified echo of a goblin weeping in a distant sewage pipe.
2. February: The rustly harrumph emitted by a disgruntled book which has been placed in an inaccessible corner instead of being the book that you pull out to make the secret door open.
3. March: That noise that unicorns make when they migrate overhead to Pluto, from which they are not coming back.
4. April: The weary sigh of a bisexual Pantone executive deleting a surplus shade of purple from the database.
5. May: A kettle’s whistle.
6. June: The gentle hiss of a fart being released in a well-stacked lift.
7. July: The tap of feet in expensive shoes, waiting in a long queue for the knife sharpener.
8. August: The b of the bang of a starting gun.
9. September: The swift rustle of a signature being signed.
10. October: An endless clatter of keys, and the tapping of dust falling on the roof.
11. November: The sort of robust plop that a turd makes hitting water when there is going to be a lot of splashback.
12. December: The metallic shriek of an old filing cabinet slamming closed.