It will happen like this. Christmas will come as it does every year and it will play out exactly like or something like or nothing at all like it did the year before or the year before that. Preparations, arrangements, lists will be made. Who will drive who, who will go where, who will get what. Bags and bags and bags of stuff will be bought and wrapped because we are all good consumers and if we're not then we should be thank you very much god save the queen etc. Everyone will buy their dead turkeys in good time, big fat dead turkeys who had a good life I'm sure, look it's smiling, lovely healthy free range turkey had a good life probably did loads of cool turkey stuff gobble gobble gobble. Friends and neighbours will be invited in, hey Mrs Jones come and have a look at my christmas turkey I've called him boris not becker but johnson ha ha isn't that funny naming the turkey after boris johnson oh god it's actually happening anyway they will both stand in front of the freezer and you and mrs jones will be invited to poke the dead bald frozen turkey and then as mrs jones is leaving I'll be invited in and you've got your tape measure and weighing scales out ready to impress me and you're proud of it oh so so so proud of it and we'll both be stood there staring at it and my eyes will be blank. You're expecting me to say something like oh wow how many is boris going to feed but I will say nothing just stand there blankly weak-limbed and agog. Then you'll ask what I've called mine and I'll say I haven't bought it I'm thinking of having a nutroast this year and your eyes will malfunction like your brain's just bluescreened itself what what what what what goodnessmewhatwillyoudo? Nutroast is madness just madness it's too late now far too late all the turkeys are gone all the turkeys are gone!!! And you will tell your friends and they will tell their friends and I'll become the talk of the town. And whole families will look at me funny as I pass them on the street. The father will whisper to the mother, the mother to the daughter, the daughter to the son and the son to their little dog who will bark it to all the spirits that only dogs can see. But who cares about that I want to go meat-free this year, yes meat-free is a good option, I've decided I'm definitely going meat-free and having a nutroast this year. He's mad, he's mad, he's mad, they'll say through the walls. Then on Christmas Eve my unblowable front door will blow open and the biggest turkey I've ever seen will fly in and in a spin of feathers unpluck itself and walk straight into my oven. How about that, I say. Howawowabout that.
I’ve called him Mr Pebble Pockets because if I don’t make a joke out of it I’ll cry. It was about 10:30pm, I’d just got back to the boat from a late shift and I was waiting for my Deliveroo. He was standing a little further down the towpath and staring at the water. The night was clear and crisp and there was enough moonlight to see the shape of him: he was tall, late twenties and had a powerful sporty look to him. He wasn’t crying, but he was shaking and he stood crooked. Well, it doesn’t take a genius, does it? I only came out to wait for a bloody curry. Mother Florence bloody Teresa Nightingale springing into action, hungry and as tired as fuck and now having to stop this guy from jumping into the canal with an anchor for a coat. I know now that the best thing to do was offer him a cigarette. I don’t know why I didn’t. I had the packet and the lighter in my hand. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘Ar...
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