Christmas is every day. It is tarmac littered with glitter, dogs in parks wearing fluffy coats. It is light and joy and too much cinnamon. Christmas is loss. Christmas is patterned loo roll and paper hats refusing to be taken off. Christmas is loneliness. Christmas is did you know that’s not actually Aled Jones singing in the film. Christmas is quite possibly the worst. Christmas is quite possibly the best. Christmas is listening. Christmas is singing behind a piano and eating an orange from a sock. Christmas is lunch. It is no lunch. Christmas is the cracker you don’t like but underneath the cheese you do like. Christmas is torture. It is the opening of a door to a garden with a trampoline built for the bones of someone you wish to fly but never get hurt.

Carl Burkitt 2024