Wednesday, 27 November 2013

Snowy Christmas

At home the whole house would smell of Christmas cooking.  Freda would be making great yule cakes and leaving them to rise by the fire.  Soon he could be sitting by the fire, a thick slice of freshly baked and buttered cake in his hand, a cup of tea on the corner of the table.

With curtains blowing, the back door shut.  His home; his Christmas.  Isolated by the day to come, he settled in front of the fire.
"Might we wake to a snowy Christmas, then?"  Freda peered at him over flour-covered glasses.
Walter shook his head, "Sharp frost and clear."
With his face as red as a smacked bum, she wondered what had been chasing him.  "All finished at the pub then?"
Walter nodded, blew the steam off his tea and added a measure of whisky to it.
"Mrs Lace get off to London then?  To her do?"
"Cuh!  You should've seen her dress.  Bit bloody cold for that sort of thing, I'd say."
Ah.  So that was it.  She'd guessed it would be.  He was jealous and flustered.  She moved the whisky bottle and the mince pies nearer to him on the table.
"I think there'll be a circus on the other channel."

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