anneiskeepingbusy

They talk about what they miss. BHS at Christmas; Philip Seymour Hoffman; her sister. Then they raise a glass to another go around. “Cheers.”

They shop for cheese and try not to worry about cholesterol. They eat mince pies and refuse to think about sugar. First world problems.

On her carer’s arm, Jean shuffles along the corridor. In her Dementia, she smiles at the neighbours and wonders when her mum will come.

In Regent Street, the Sally Army band play The First Noel. She thinks of her Welsh, temperance Aunts – now long dead. Nadolig Llawen, bach.

There’s something maudlin about Christmas decorations. The dancing bear from her grandma, the star her son made 20 years ago. And another year done.

Gaza is in rubble, the forests burn. Meanwhile, in Gloucester, a chicken called Billie-Jean roams the streets in a high vis jacket. Crazy times.

Every year, when she writes her elderly mother’s Christmas cards, they argue about postcodes. Her mum calls them new-fangled.  She laughs. “Fifty years ago.”

They’re stressed all the time, these middle-class women of a certain age. They speak well, dress with style, but seldom sleep a whole night.

“We have a store of days and we spend them like wasteful drunks.”* He feels this every December, wondering where all the time went.

• Days Without End, Sebastian Barry

Neil reads from the newspaper, “Prince Andrew and the Chinese businessman.”

Stella says, “New joke. A ‘useful idiot’ goes on a ‘straightforward shooting weekend.’”