Season’s Weepings
by Tracey Pearson
The Christmas spectacular was cancelled, due to the lack of spectacle. A rooftop, a chimney pot. A void where reindeer and sleigh should be. No boot prints, no presents. No magical, red-suited presence. Puddings, figgy or otherwise, were not brought. Trees, sans tinsel, appeared suspiciously naked, especially to the eyes of middle-class women of a certain age, who tend to balk at that sort of thing. Rings, typically golden in candle light, looked dull in the dark. All five refused to shine. ‘Fear not,’ said she, wings aglow. ‘Christmas brings the promise of peace to bombed-out moonlit streets.’
