It’s a cold day to spend up a ladder. The builders complain, but in good humour. They heckle a stranger, passing nearby with a covered tray; fruity remarks, but no malice.
She returns to offer mince pies, hot from the oven. Happy workmen; happy donor. Smiles all round.
Happy day, with its little taste of Christmas spirit.
I recently learned that mince pies are a peculiarly English delicacy (another tradition we foisted onto the world: my apologies). I did know that they contain no mince, despite the name. You can read more here.
For Christmas, here are my expectations: too much food too much wine too many relations.
Be careful what you wish for! This was written years ago, when Covid was merely a twinkle in the world’s eye. What I wouldn’t give now, to be exhausted and irritable from hosting and feeding a houseful.