Copyright © 2025 Alby Stone
Something smells interesting, but I really can’t be bothered to get up to investigate. The space beside me is unoccupied but still warm, so the undisputed love of my life must have risen only a short while ago. Unlike me, she prefers to wash and prepare herself for the day after breakfast. Also unlike me, she likes to get up earlier; I’m the kind of guy who needs a nap to recover from a good night’s sleep, especially after a late night. So I’ll just doze here for a while and enjoy the aromas of toasting and frying.
When I wake again the smells still linger but the house is silent. I contemplate contemplating the ceiling for a few more minutes but my belly is rumbling and there is a familiar discomfort in my nether regions. I empty my bladder, wash, then head for the kitchen. My breakfast is there, as it always is at this time of day. As usual, she’s left me a note, even though she knows I never read them. This one says: Have a great day. Might be back a bit late – drinks after work followed by a row of wholly unnecessary XXXs. Okay, I lied about never reading her notes. But please, don’t tell her. Sentimentality should not be encouraged.
She works in an office. I’m not exactly sure what she does there, but it seems to involve making sure one set of numbers tallies with another, and swearing a lot when they don’t, which happens often. Yes, I know she looks like the butter-wouldn’t-melt sort, and she’s a real sweetheart, but let me tell you – when she’s roused, when the brakes fail and her temper is unleashed: fishwife. Me? I’m the calm and relaxed type, an artist, a philosopher. My work is cerebral. I also have a few hobbies. Her friends say I’m a layabout, an idler, lacking both ambition and application; but nothing could be further from the truth. What do they know? An interest in fashion and interior design does not qualify anyone to pronounce judgement on someone else’s inner life.
With my belly filled, I take my usual seat in the conservatory and gaze out of the window. It’s been snowing, which is pretty unusual at this time of year and in this part of the world, or so she says. The white blanket covering the garden is marred by a couple of black shapes, crows searching half-heartedly for tasty titbits. They’re not my favourite creatures but I feel a bit sorry for them, out in the cold, not much to eat, struggling across the snowy expanse, leaving their meandering trails of little trident footprints to show where they’ve been. Poor things. Their plight makes me grateful for the finer products of human ingenuity: double glazing, central heating, the duvet, sofas and cushions, vans delivering groceries – now that’s what I call civilisation. It’s the closest thing to meaning in this meaningless universe. I’ll take what I can get.
I’m not technically agoraphobic, but I don’t go out much. There’s no need, not really. Besides, she doesn’t like me going out. She’s overprotective, her friends say. But that doesn’t ring true. I think she just doesn’t trust me to behave – too many temptations out there, and always the possibility of danger. I could be wrong about that, but it would explain why she not only tolerates but actively encourages my contemplative, creative lifestyle. Not that it matters; the end result is the same. So I sit and watch the world through one window or another, and contemplate life and dream my dreams.
In the corner of the room is a green plastic tree adorned with tinsel, little twinkling lights and small shiny spheres that reflect a curved version of my face if I get close. Tinsel, in fact, is everywhere. She loves the stuff. She also loves making chains from coloured paper – cut to size, link, bend, glue with PVA, stand on a chair and pin to the ceiling, the whole process. I once tried to help but was scolded. I’m too clumsy and messy, she said, and I’ve kept well clear ever since. She’s taken to wearing a red cap with white trimmings and bobble, same as every year. The time of year means nothing to me, though I do enjoy a good Christmas dinner, even if I avoid sprouts and cranberry sauce like the plague. Not too keen on roast potatoes either. I did try Christmas pudding once when I was young but didn’t like it much, though the custard was nice.
There’s a noise at the front door, then something drops onto the doormat. It’s a card for her, no stamp so it’s been hand-delivered by a neighbour or one of her friends. That’ll be another addition to the section of wall obscured by robins, fat men in red and white suits and beards, Baby Jesus in his mother’s arms surrounded by sheep, cows, shepherds and Wise Men and a Joseph trying his damnedest to look as anonymous in the flesh as he is textually. I’ve never seen the point of all this celebratory nonsense. It’s just fodder for landfill or the recycling bin. I mean, you can’t do much else with cards, used wrapping paper or knackered old decorations, can you? No matter how bright and cheerful and pious the cards and tinsel and baubles are, the story is the same: hung out once a year, a few days of being largely ignored, then back into the loft or the recycling bin with them, as required. They are human civilisation in microcosm, a downwardly spiraling series of flashes in the pan. One day, pretty soon if the television news is any guide, that pan will be flushed.
More snow is falling. The treetops glisten and I listen, but all I hear is disappointed cawing. The crows have given up their fruitless quest for food and have returned to their roosts to complain. They’ll be okay because she’s incredibly soft-hearted. Tomorrow she’ll set up the usual garden feast: scraps for the crows and pigeons, fat balls and topped-up bird feeders hung from branches, scattered nuts for the squirrels, a few stainless steel dishes heaped with cat food for the badgers and hedgehogs we never see. Well, you never know who’s going to be calling in on Christmas morning.
She knows quite a lot about Christmas, which means I do too, as she has a tendency to lecture, and I’m a captive audience. Last week I was watching a David Attenborough wildlife documentary and she talked all the way through it, from opening titles to end credits. It didn’t spoil the show but I now know more than I ever wanted to about seasonal festivals. For instance, that Christmas is only one religion’s take on what the winter solstice means. Far from being about the birth of a holy child in a far-off land more years than I can count – literally – it’s really a celebration of the moment the sun is reborn after a year-long decline, and an opportunity to cheer up and fatten up for the coldest part of the year. Every culture and religion in the northern hemisphere has its own version, and it’s been going on for a very long time, since long before the Baby Jesus was even a twinkle in a deity’s eye. For as long as there have been human beings, they have feasted and decorated and exchanged gifts to mark the end of those long nights and in anticipation of light and food to come. Christmas presents are actually an example of something called potlatch, gifts to demonstrate affection and cement social ties. At least, I think so. I confess that I’d tuned out by then and was preparing to embark on an after-dinner nap. I can’t help it. A full belly always makes me sleepy, and at this time of year meals tend to be larger, which is fine by me. It will help put me in the mood to continue work on my magnum opus.
With a start, I realize that it’s getting dark, with not a single word added to The Moment of Existence. I’ve somehow managed to fritter away the whole day. But that’s alright. Each day is succeeded by another and tomorrow will surely be more productive. Then I hear her key in the lock and the door opening with a quiet creak. I go to greet her. She’s slightly unsteady on her feet and smiling, clutching a bag filled with cards and a Secret Santa present that will surely migrate to a nearby charity shop early in the New Year. She hugs me and we kiss, tell each other about our days, which admittedly in my case doesn’t amount to much. She’s got a fish supper for tonight’s dinner, a convenience meal to microwave later because first she has a lot of preparation to get through. An enormous foil-wrapped and well-stuffed turkey goes into the oven on a low heat. Potatoes are peeled and halved, left in a pan of water, ready to roast when the poultry has vacated the oven. Green vegetables are prepared for the hob. Tomorrow, the kitchen will be like a factory production line, one operation smoothly following another. Then the cooked goodies – and a few villains – will be transferred to plates and serving dishes and onto the dining table. I think it’s a lot of food for only two of us. Indigestion beckons.
Bring it on.
Later, we are snuggled up on the sofa, watching something on Netflix, about some young people battling an evil entity in a strange, underground world. It doesn’t hold my attention. She is exhausted after a day at the office and working hard in the kitchen, and she starts to nod off. After half an hour she announces that she’s going to bed. Ten minutes later, I follow. Soon, we are both fast asleep.
I am wakened by a strange noise. It is dark and, although I am by no means disorientated by the sudden leap into full consciousness. I am confused. It is pitch dark; she sleeps soundly beside me, the normal night-time situation. But the house is… unquiet. I briefly consider that the television has switched itself on again. It happens: someone in a neighbouring house has a remote control that occasionally changes channels on our television midway through a programme. She’s asked around but we don’t know who is responsible, though I’m inclined to blame that spoiled, rat-faced boy who lives two doors away. He’s always out in his back garden playing with his toys and gadgets, and he specializes in noisy things with flashing lights, and likes flying drones over other people’s property. Okay, I’m biased, but that’s only because he once threw a stone at me while I was in the back garden. How can you trust someone like that?
Anyway, I quickly realise that the sound isn’t coming from the television. It is a sort of whisper, with soft rustling and scratching. Mice? No, they don’t whisper, they squeak. Then I have a thought that freezes my blood: burglars? In a flash, I am out of bed and padding stealthily onto the landing. Thankfully the bedroom door is left open, otherwise there would be a treacherous creak. All the doors in this house creak. Silently, I glide down the stairs. The whisper grows louder. I can’t see any lights but there is a cold draught. The back door is open. My heart beats faster. I don’t care about all the stuff – the microwave, television, her phone and laptop, the Christmas tree, not even the food – as it’s all replaceable, just things. I care about her, keeping her safe. Nothing else matters.
I am prepared to fight, to the death if necessary. And I am wholly in the moment, focused and ablaze with adrenaline. Raising myself to my full height, I push open the door to the living room, and prepare to confront any and all intruders.
The whispering, I immediately realize, is actually coming from the television set after all, the volume turned down low. On the screen, a man stands on a bridge, smiling desperately and shouting, snow falling around him in crisp monochrome. But someone is watching it. His head turns toward me as I enter the room, and our eyes meet.
He is plump, of indeterminate age, though somehow I know he is very, very old – ancient, in fact, in a way I cannot fathom. He is dressed all in red with trimmings as white as his beard and hair. He is frozen in the act of biting into a mince pie. I don’t mind that – can’t abide the things – but he is sitting my place on the sofa, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. In the floor to his right is a large sack, partly open to reveal packages of all shapes and sizes, all wrapped in brightly-coloured paper and tied with ribbon. He chews and swallows, then speaks, gesturing with the bisected pie.
‘Have you been a good boy this year?’
I am speechless. It’s the only sane reaction.
‘Of course you have,’ he says with a broad smile, eyes sparkling with amusement. Then he chuckles. In some way I do not understand, that makes me feel much better. Happy. Merry. He delves into the sack and brings out a small red-and-green package, then rises and places it at the foot of the twinkling tree among the other wrapped gifts. ‘This is for you,’ he says. ‘But you mustn’t open it until the morning.’
I’m still unable to utter a sound. The black and white film has ended. Now there is a news broadcast: more seasonal violence in the world’s supposedly holiest places, members of Homo sapiens doing the usual unspeakable things to one another. A tropical storm and tiny figures taking refuge on unsafe-looking rooftops; a burning mosque, a church reduced to smoking rubble; wailing parents and weeping children; hospital beds with bloodied, bandaged forms lying motionless; faces filled with anger, despair and dread; politicians with unconvincingly innocent expressions blaming everyone but themselves; a Nativity scene in a far-off land.
‘That’s what they don’t understand, the bearded man says sadly. It should be a time of peace and goodwill and prosperity for all, but it never is. It isn’t about religion – life isn’t about religion. They’d do well to remember that I was here before the fools invented the first god. The meaning of Christmas – of me – is this: full bellies, warmth, shelter and safety. I’m here for them, and they should be here for one another.’ He points at the television screen. ‘Look, my young friend. Look at that Nativity scene. What does it tell you? It tells you that Christmas, under whichever name you prefer, is for all. It’s for those who govern, the thinkers, the workers. It’s for men, women and children, of every kind – for the rich and the poor, but especially the poor. And look – the animals too. Life on this world is a precious thing, and it all matters. Christmas is a lesson for everyone. Look after the moments – especially the good moments, the safe, warm and happy ones – and the future will look after itself.’
Staring at me thoughtfully, he finishes the mince pie and takes a sip from a glass of sherry – I hadn’t even noticed that – smacking his lips appreciatively. ‘Oh well,’ he says, ‘I’d better get on. I’ve still got Ireland and the Americas to do. That’s a lot of metaphorical chimneys before this sack gets emptied. And the presents are also metaphors, you know. It really is the thought that counts. Not that the bloody idiots ever bother to think. But what do I know? I’m just the message. I do my job and that’s all I can do.’
He winks, puts on his red cap with the white edge and bobble, and hoists the sack over a meaty shoulder. Then he leaves. As he goes, I hear a muttered ‘Damn, left the bloody door open again.’ The back door closes and, weirdly, I hear it lock itself from the inside. The sherry glass and the foil tray that held the mince pie have vanished from the coffee table.
Still stunned into silence, I go back to bed. Sleep is elusive so I start planning the next chapter of my book. Eventually, I lose consciousness and dream of crows walking in the snow, marching armies of tiny men in red suits with sacks over their shoulders, and an endless stream of envelopes falling onto the doormat. Then I’m awake again to an empty bed and a still-warm spot, and the smell of toast and frying eggs. I rise, perform my ablutions, and join her at the breakfast table.
‘We can open our presents when we’ve eaten,’ she tells me. We eat to the sound of the radio and it’s tale of festive disaster and woe. I think about what the old man said, and am comforted by the fact that, in this household at least, it’s true. All the fools on earth couldn’t change that. I hope. Meanwhile, I manage to convince myself that last night’s strange encounter was merely a part of my dreamscape, the result of cod-in-batter indigestion.
The suspense is prolonged when she decides that the breakfast dishes need to be washed before we get down to unwrapping whatever’s under the tree. At the kitchen sink, she picks up a glass from the drying rack. ‘I don’t remember having another drink when I got home,’ she says. Then she shrugs and gives it a quick rinse before tackling the breakfast things. After that, she makes a telephone, season’s greetings to someone I’ve never met. The typical combination of commiseration, sympathy and felicitations – all her telephone conversations are like that, the dutiful sharing of happiness and misery dictated by sentimentality – the call seems to last several days, though really it’s only about ten minutes. At last, she rings off and we get down to business. I’m excited and deeply interested in the proceedings. You have to bear in mind that I wasn’t around this time last year, so this is all new to me.
The presents under the tree are all for her, of course. Well, she’s the one with friends and family, after all. I play my part, however, watching as she peels tape from paper, making appreciative noises as her endeavours reveal a blue scarf, red gloves, a green woolly hat, a yellow blouse, purple earrings, pink-rimmed sunglasses, and a multicoloured brooch that looks like an accident in a paint factory. My appreciation isn’t entirely insincere. I’m looking forward to seeing how that combination impacts her fashion-snob friends’ idea of taste.
Finally, she unwraps a present wrapped in red and green. And my hair stands on end, which is quite an impressive sight, though I say so myself. ‘That’s strange,’ she says. ‘This one is for you, but I don’t remember seeing it before.’ With a frown and another shrug, and a loosening of slender red ribbon, the paper is off and the contents revealed.
It’s a mouse, made of grey cloth and filled with something that smells absolutely wonderful. She laughs and throws it across the room. I give chase and pounce, rubbing my face against it and biting and kicking, and that gorgeous smell explodes along neural pathways from my nose to my brain and I am consumed by the joy of this moment in which I exist and that is all there is and all there needs to be.