Marks and Spencer’s food hall at Christmas is one of the last refuges for ill-mannered and bad tempered old women in the British Isles. The old men come close but for sheer selfish, aggressive behaviour you can’t beat old women in pursuit of the last Brussel Sprout of the season.
I stood in line at the checkout, biting my lower lip each time the wizened old baggage behind me pushed her trolley into my legs. I was good, though. Didn’t curse, didn’t treat her to a withering look, and didn’t hit her with my stick. And we got through the queue with a smile and, for me, a song:
Once in Royal David’s City…
“I bet you had a lovely voice when you were a boy soprano,” Graham said.
“I did. I did.”
“Isn’t the passage of time cruel?”
I pretended I didn’t hear and let him stomp off to drop our shopping in the car, shoving space-invading old men and women aside as he went. I walked off much more slowly to order coffee and mince-pies in Starbucks.
“A four-shot vente latte and a triple espresso,” I said.
“Eeek. That’s a lot of caffeine,” said the senior barrista. “Are you sure about that?”
“Just pour it, ducky. And don’t push your luck.”
By the time I picked it up on the little plastic tray and made my way toward the light at the front of the store but not all the way–there’s a frightful stink of cigarette smoke around the doorway of Starbucks in Swansea–Graham appeared all rosy, steamy-breathed and fresh as a frosted rose on a winter morning.
“Well, that’s about it, then,” I said. “Christmas is accomplished.”
“Yup. Didn’t we do well?”
“Not so bad. Just one sour note.”
“What’s that then? You’re not still going on about that old baggage in the M&S checkout, are you?”
“No. I was just thinking of what I’m going to do to get even for that passage of time crack.”
“Ah. Nothing like the Christmas Spirit to cheer us all up, is there?”
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Christmas tree, 2009
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