Chilled Out

With a gust of steam and Brussels sprouts, Adam burst out of the kitchen and out of the house, slamming the front door behind him.

Christmas made no difference. Roberta and Adam, mother and son, didn’t get on, and that was that. I gave it another couple of minutes, drained my sherry glass, wished Roberta a happy one, and departed with a little less fuss.

The deepening murk of afternoon threw into relief other brightly lit rooms and scenes of seasonal fun and games. And one that was more like a tableau. A large dining table was abandoned to the detritus of a festive meal, spent crackers, paper streamers, orange peel, nut shells, and old Granddad, fallen forward in his chair with his paper hat still on, fast asleep face down in his plum pudding and custard.

Someone else, hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets for warmth, had just joined me.

I turned to Adam. ‘Says it all, really.’