The Boxing Day Grotto (a.k.a. Santa Receives Feedback)

Richard loved being Father Christmas. It was the highlight of his year to don the red velvet suit with white cotton trim, to squeak around in weighty black boots and take the light-adorned seat in the local mall grotto. Alas this period of work lasted for only two thirds of December before ending rather abruptly on the 24^th.

            Then again Richard didn’t do it for the money. He had received a decent retirement package from his years working focus groups at Ruddlesden Superstore, plenty to live on in his dotage. It was just lovely to be able to listen to what kids wanted for a change. They certainly had a better grasp of such things than their parents.

            Regardless Christmas Eve soon came around again and he found himself especially broody. One thing that had always bothered Richard was how nobody ever followed up on these kids, checked that they got what they wanted or else were happy with what they received. Perhaps it was his old business brain working overtime but he saw a definite opportunity here.

            So it was that he set up a new grotto in the communal field round the back of his cottage, just far enough away so that the local kids didn’t get too suspicious. Richard didn’t officially open for business till Boxing Day morning.

            The first person he saw was Aneesa, the nice girl from two doors down. He had mentioned to her what he was thinking of doing when they crossed paths in the park and she was keen to help out. Seeing her jingle across the grass, adjusting her pointy elf ears was a sight to behold.

            “Excellent elf costume, dear,” Richard said. “Hope you didn’t go to too much trouble?”

            Aneesa shook her head. “My brother leant me these ears. He’s a big Trekkie. As for the costume, I improvised with one of Mum’s old dresses.”

            Richard regarded the rather vibrant red and green swirls that came to a glittery halt at the hem of a rather short skirt.

Aneesa shrugged her shoulders. “She wore this stuff in the 60’s.”

Richard nodded, wondering if his electric pink bell bottoms were somewhere in the back of his wardrobe. “I’m not sure what to expect today. Could be nobody comes. If you get bored, feel free to head back home.”

“Thanks but Dad’s on with making enough Peshwari Naan for the neighbourhood. At such times, it’s better to be out of the house.”

“Right.” Richard put on his Santa hat. “Let’s see who turns up then.”

 

True to prediction, the first two hours were incredibly quiet. Their only visitor was Mrs Ashcroft from Hogarth Lane, dressed in her orange Mackintosh while exercising her fox terriers. Aneesa flinched at the sudden appearance of a furry snout so Richard stepped outside. As soon as seeing him in his outfit, Mrs Ashcroft chuckled.

            “You do know what day it is, don’t you, Richard?” She spoke slowly though this was mostly a tease.

            The fairer terrier, Sandy, scratched at the toe of Richard’s boot. “Yes, Imelda. Did you not receive the note I posted through everyone’s letterbox?”

            “I did. Our Wesley is a bit too old for this sort of thing now.”

            “Really? He came to Ruddlesden last year.” Richard squinted as he remembered. “Asked for the full latest Power Ranger set if I’m not mistaken.”

            Mrs Ashcroft’s eyes shined with surprise. “You’ve got a good memory.”

            “I do my best.”

            Sandy had now taken to sniffing the behind of her darker brother, Brody. Richard thought the intensity with which she did this a bit indecent but Mrs Ashcroft wasn’t at all fazed. She just tucked a stray lock of white hair back beneath her hood and chuckled again. “So what is this then? Customer feedback?”

            “In a way.”

            “Well, I suppose if any Santa can ask the right questions, it would be you.” She winked. “I’ll remind the Fosters and the Brickleys. One’s to the left of my bungalow and the other’s to the right. We often have little back garden gatherings.”

            Richard smiled. “Thank you.”

            Mrs Ashcroft set out again, pulled by both Sandy and Brody who apparently wanted to investigate a nearby fencepost. “I’ll look forward to your eventual presentation at the next town meeting.”

            She was a snarky one but Mrs Ashcroft had a kind nature. Though she obviously didn’t believe in his project, she wouldn’t see Richard sat out in the cold for nothing. Once she and the dogs had disappeared, he returned to the grotto. Aneesa was watching from the window.

            “Still not a dog person then?” Richard asked.

            “I know it’s silly.” she grimaced. “Mum loves dogs but Dad still doesn’t trust them.”

            “Parents give a lot of themselves to their kids. More than they’ll ever know.”

            With a reassuring pat on her shoulder, Richard got his portable kettle boiling. They both had their tea strong, fingers wrapped around thick mugs.

            Not long after the steam had dissipated, Richard set his tea down and answered a small but firm knock at the door. Little Tommy Brickley stood in the doorway, eight years old and scowling. Richard gave his loudest ho, ho, ho but the belly laugh did nothing to appease the stiff-lipped lad.

            “Hello, Tommy. How are you this chilly Boxing Day?”

            Tommy ripped off his black bobble hat and stuffed it into the pocket of his silver puffer jacket. “A Snottyhead.”

            Richard adjusted his half-moon spectacles. “Pardon?”

            “I asked for a Snottyhead,” Tommy spoke slowly, a rumble to his voice. “You gave me a Grinspan.”

            Richard glanced at Aneesa for help.

            “Father Christmas, aren’t Snottyhead and Grinspan from the same line of action figures? The ones with green goopy hair?”

            After a moment Richard nodded. “Yes. I believe Snottyhead is the goodie and Grinspan is the baddie.”

            “No,” Tommy snapped. “Grinspan is Snottyhead’s partner! Grinspan has a big smile but no bogey hair. He’s smaller too.”

            Richard locked eyes with Aneesa but she just shrugged. With a huff, he knelt down to the boy’s level.

            “Oh, I am sorry, Tommy. Unfortunately Snottyhead didn’t have any toys to spare me this year. However Grinspan was kind enough to pass on one of his.”

            Tommy grunted. “Snottyhead and Grinspan aren’t real. They’re on TV.”

            “Is that what they tell you, eh?” Richard tried a wink but he had the feeling this wouldn’t quite work. The boy was now shaking with anger. “I am sorry, my boy. We’ll see what we can do next year, eh?”

            “You’re Santa!” Tommy shouted. “You’re supposed to make the toys yourself!”

            With that he stormed back out onto the frosty grass, crunching all the way home.

            “Blimey,” Richard said, sinking back into his grotto chair.

            “Not sure what Elaine was playing at there,” Aneesa replied. “Snottyhead figures are in all the supermarkets as well as the toy shops. I even saw one on Christmas Eve.”

            “Really?”

            “Yes. Dad needed me to pick up some ingredients.”

            Richard was downcast for some time after that. Of course it wasn’t his fault that Tommy’s Mum didn’t buy the right action figure but Tommy didn’t know that. He honestly thought Santa handled the entire arrangement himself, as if he were contractually obliged. The more Richard thought about this scenario, the more bizarre it seemed. Food for thought but certainly not the kind he had expected, at least not at first.

            Fortunately there was another half an hour or so of quiet. Aneesa got up to stretch her legs out on the field and when she returned, it was with Mr Foster and his twin daughters Ophelia and Katie in tow.

            Richard did his best to perk up, even pinching his cheeks to add colour.

            The girls went silent when they saw him so Mr Foster tousled their long black hair to get them to talk. Instead Katie burst into tears. Her father looked momentarily powerless, glancing at Richard as if he might be able to fix the mistake.

            “Now, now, petal,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

            Katie sniffed and wiped her cheek with the sleeve of her woolly overcoat. She then turned to Ophelia, lifting one white fluffy ear warmer to whisper.

            Once she was done, Ophelia cleared her throat. “You forgot our puppy, Santa.”

            Richard locked eyes with Mr Foster who shook his close-shaven head.

            “I see,” Richard replied. “Well, there’s a funny story about that. You see, the elves and I were about to make you the cutest puppy ever but unfortunately we ran out of stuff. We had plenty of lovely soft fur but couldn’t fetch the right sparkle for the puppy’s eyes.”

            “Silly me,” Aneesa added. Richard smiled his thanks for alleviating the responsibility.

            “But puppies aren’t made,” Ophelia said. “We saw one being born.”

            Richard paused. “You did?”

            “Yes.”

            Richard wasn’t quite sure what to say. He could stick to his story but then that might complicate the life lessons the girls had already been taught. Judging from the wide-eyed look on Mr Foster’s face, he had no idea how much they already knew.

            “That must be where we’re going wrong then,” Richard replied conversationally to Aneesa.

            Ophelia gawped at them while Katie set off crying again. At last Mr Foster took the initiative to lead them both out before any further damage was done.

            Richard reached for a handkerchief and mopped his creased brow. “My goodness. It’s all go today, isn’t it?”

            “I’m afraid so.”

            He turned to Aneesa now who was still watching the Fosters from the window.

            “Do you think this was the right idea?”

            “Well, Santa does have a lot of explaining to do. All those kids asking for things their Mum and Dad can’t give them.”

            “I never say yes.” Richard straightened up. “It’s always been my understanding that Santa only ever says ‘I’ll see what I can do’.”

            Aneesa wrinkled her nose. “Doesn’t he also talk about them being good?”

            “I hope you’re not suggesting I indulge in emotional blackmail.”

            “Not you.” Aneesa chuckled. “Santa. One way or another, Father Christmas has always been about giving gifts to only good kids. Still it all comes down to what their Mum and Dad can afford or are willing to do. The whole philosophy runs the risk of good kids feeling punished for trying their best but not quite succeeding.”

            Richard massaged his temples. “I’ll agree it’s not a perfect system. All I can say is that I try my best to represent the better part of Father Christmas. The open ear.”

            “And you do. Which begs the question, why check up on what kids got or didn’t get when the answer is taking such a toll on you?”

            Richard needed a moment to think about this. It was dawning on him that the grotto idea might have been a little selfish. He was hoping for satisfied customers or customers who recognised the efforts he had personally gone to. Really years of focus group work should have taught him that you needed to take the rough with the smooth. There are many reactions to even the simplest transaction. There is a danger to pretending to be responsible for a moral decision that really comes down to money.

            He fell quiet for a while but then Aneesa didn’t pressure him for an answer. Instead she gave him some space and set about making them another cup of tea. As the kettle began to hiss behind him, he raised himself to his feet and began peeling the Christmas lights off his grotto chair. There was really no point carrying on with all this. Whatever happened next would just disappoint him.

            Richard didn’t notice that the girl had wandered in till he turned around. He gasped, clutching his chest. “Deary me! You’re light on your feet!”

            The girl giggled. Something told Richard he was on a good wicket here so sat back down. The girl looked about eleven or so, tall for her age and rubbing her pink mittens together. Aneesa appeared behind Richard.

            “Hello, Kelly!”

            “Ah yes. Kelly, pet. How are you?”

            “I’m okay,” she said. “Just want to say thank you.”

            “Thank you?” Richard couldn’t disguise the shock in his voice.

            “Yes.” Kelly pulled the toggles on her red trapper hat. “I got what I wanted.”

            Richard smiled carefully. “I’m glad to hear it.” Unfortunately he could not recall what ‘it’ was precisely. That was one of the other issues of doing this, he was accepting thanks for other Santa impersonators.

            “Okay,” Kelly replied, turning back towards the door. “Have a nice day, Father Christmas.”

            “Before you go…” Richard began. He was going to ask what she had got for Christmas. His desperation would have had him come right out with it. Then again that would have shown that Santa did not know what he had gifted Kelly with. It would have completely dispelled the girl’s already fragile belief system. In a year she might very well no longer believe. Did he really have it in him to ruin that so early?

            No. To hell with customer service appraisal or whatever this was. For now Richard was Father Christmas, one who had apparently delivered. Better to leave the dream alone.

            “Merry Boxing Day, Kelly,” he said.

            Kelly giggled again. “Thank you. You too.”

            “See you, love,” Aneesa added.

            Once the girl had gone, Richard turned to Aneesa. “Well, that was something, eh?”

            Aneesa patted him on the shoulder. “Are we packing up?”

            Richard took in a refreshing breath of air. “Yes. We’re done here.”

            True enough, there were no further visitors as they took down decorations. Though Richard huffed and puffed with the work, he was quietly relieved. He wasn’t sure about the presentation at the town hall that Mrs Ashcroft suggested but he was content with the overall results. So long as one in three little customers left satisfied, he was too.  

Incarnations (a.k.a. A Legacy Story for Doctor Who Day)

At one point in their lives, both my parents were Time Lords. Well not just Time Lords, the same Time Lord.

            As in all things, my mother went first. Katherine Canavar joined Doctor Who in 2027 as the fifteenth incarnation. Her costume was not completely unlike her personal style: brown leather dress and crimson shawl. She did make her hair more extravagant, darkening the natural red and curling it.

            "For my look, I turned to past companions," she explained in an interview once. "I settled on the sexy savagery of Leela with Mel's fiery head of hair."

            Her performance was described as Earth Mother, a look that was generally agreed as being very new for the role. Nevertheless she managed to strike a balance between witchy and alien, moving about the TARDIS like it was her own walk-in crucible.

            The most recurring villains for her time were the Autons.

            "It just made sense," she said. "My Doctor couldn't stand the unnatural getting in the way of the natural. She was a true environmentalist surrounded by plastic fakery. Of course, she would try to recycle it into something better."

            In 2032 she regenerated into my father. Bilal Zaro not only met Canavar on set, he did so in the same outfit as her.

            "The shawl doesn't suit," she remarked, "but the dress matches the brown of your eyes."

            He would have laughed more had he not been so nervous. My Dad was a consummate professional but still this was his favourite show from childhood. His first Doctor had been Matt Smith but my Mum had never really followed the show before or even much after.

            "You'll be fine," she told him. "The fans will be glad testosterone has finally returned."

            At this my Dad did laugh. "Not quite what I'm going for."

            As the sixteenth incarnation, Zaro was much quieter than most of the previous Doctors, Canavar especially. He preferred tinkering with machinery to talking and made a fraction of the rousing speeches that his immediate predecessor had.

            His eventual costume featured Paddington-inspired toggle coats and glasses with extra microscopic lenses. The majority of his adventures came to feature the Doctor discovering a piece of tech that he fiddled with until the third act where its use became apparent. He needed an intellectual sparring partner and, with the Master on a well-earned rest, the Rani returned.

            "Part of me thinks that the show runners saw an opportunity with my casting," he once mentioned to me. "An actual Asian in the TARDIS to make the Hindu Queen relevant and not racially offensive. However I was raised Muslim and I'm not even that anymore."

            When my Dad called Mum up for advice on the role, they got to talking about a lot more than method. To this day Mum insists that she asked Dad out.

            The announcement of their love affair was, of course, a coup in both fandom and media. Mum basked in it, but Dad was far more reserved. He was still in the role after all and already had to contend with remarks that Mum was the far better Doctor. And yet this only proved a point of contention long after he had given up the role and I was born.

            "It was your fifth birthday when we had the idea," Mum explained when I was in my early teens. "Your Dad and I still had our respective sonic screwdrivers from our times on the show."

            Dad shook his head. "I knew it was a bad idea from the start."

            Mum shushed him. "It was a symbolic gift-giving."

            "And an experiment."

            She rolled her eyes. "We gave you them at roughly the same time to see which you would play with more."

            "And?" I asked.

            Mum glanced at Dad. He sighed.

            "Your screwdriver was more tactile. Of course a toddler would want to play with it."

            "Yours was too simple."

            "It was a classic design! Like Troughton's!"

            She turned to me. "You didn't let go of my screwdriver for the rest of the day."

            "Well, yes. It was firmly wedged between the girl's teeth."

            Mum nodded. "I should have taken it off you sooner."

            "A choking hazard."

            "A choking hazard that would have paid for your college education. And then some."

            I had just started college when I truly began to see my parents for who they were. I had also watched their respective runs on the show without them eagerly pointing at the screen whenever they subtly emoted or delivered a brilliant line.

            Their performances did actually speak a lot to their personal characters. The fifteenth Doctor was more than a little hammy and you could always hear her coming. I couldn't go anywhere in the house without hearing Mum mangling Dusty Springfield from the kitchen.

            The sixteenth Doctor was a little unsettling with his small gestures and rarely saw people for the pieces of the puzzle they held in their hand. I stopped bringing friends over for dinner when Dad interrogated Tina about her dental degree studies.

            You would think I would have instead focused on the seventeenth Doctor and all who came after her but, well, I honestly couldn't get into the show. Of course, that revelation made uni life fun: the theme’s sting playing whenever I walked into common rooms. I should never have told Julio on that first night in halls. I always made sure the place was empty before allowing my parents to pick me up in the holidays.

            In that time though the cracks that I'd tried my best to ignore finally spread through their relationship.

            "We need time apart," Dad said. Still he was holding his head in his hands. "It's just your Mum doesn't let up about the roles I choose. She keeps interfering with my career. I know she doesn't mean to, but she does."

            Mum's side of the story was inevitably different: "I don't like his silences anymore. He doesn't realise how hard it is for a woman my age to find work. The conventions are a boon. I just wish he understood and gave them a try."

            When the split was official, the media had long since moved on. A borderline incestuous sci-fi romance wasn't so interesting when the stars had faded.

            They managed to be civil even after all was said and done. Mum kept living on the convention circuit, Dad found plenty of character work on ITV primetime.

            And while I very much remain a postgraduate History student, I have finally succumbed to acting. Julio managed to mount a student production of the lesser-known stage show Doctor Who: The Ultimate Adventure. Though there were many contenders for the lead, he firmly believed that no-one would be more appropriate than the lovechild of two canonical Doctors. My costume borrowed Mum's crimson shawl and Dad's specialised glasses. I picked my own sonic screwdriver design though.

            They watched from the audience together, laughing, crying, squabbling over whose acting method mine best resembled. And I watched them in turn, wondering at which point I stopped being a midpoint between the two of them and became the next incarnation of myself.

____________________________________________

This is a fan fiction story about Doctor Who. All rights to characters and concepts mentioned are reserved by the BBC and relevant parties.

WHEN OPENING AN EASTER EGG (a.k.a. A List of Serious Instructions for Approaching Chocolate Ovoids)

The Cardboard Packaging

• Open at top then, once egg is safely put aside, open bottom too.
• Tear off flaps in case a bee needs to be captured and delivered outdoors.
• Put hand through curiously-shaped window and rattle like bracelet.
• Answer puzzles on box or otherwise decorate with permanent marker.

The Plastic Packaging

• Turn upside down and flap two halves like filmy wings.
• Use scissors on plastic just for click and wobbliness of cut.
• Keep aside in case ovoid mould comes in handy for later occasion.
• Wonder why weeks later and promptly chuck out.

The Tin Foil

• Peel off carefully and flatten, cutting off wherever torn.
• Apply to action figures as shiny face mask.
• Peel off carefully to preserve face imprint then scrunch up with sadism.
• Play catch with precious nugget until bin intercedes.

The Chocolate Egg

• Tap against lip of bowl to open.
• Break down into chocolatey shards.
• Use thin sharp shard to write name on bigger shard.
• Preserve in fridge or devour in one.

PUNCH LINE PARTY (a.k.a. A Bad Joke Story for UK Punday 2020)

The pirate sips a Bacardi Breezer. The Spanish footballer bites into a cube of chicken, sliding it off the kebab stick. Multicolour lights dance around them as they stand beside the party buffet.
The pirate takes the black hat from his head and wafts himself with it, causing the fake red beard to flutter. His other hand reaches for the steering wheel on his crotch but hesitates, remembering that it is there, that it can't be moved until after the party is over.
The footballer grins at this but itches the tight Astroturf skirt he is wearing. It goes right up to his crotch so at least he is in a more comfortable position than his friend. He starts to feel the heat himself, wafting his Real Madrid jersey.
"I'm going to kill Derek," the pirate says. "You just know he picked this venue to make the night even more impossible."
The footballer looks around. "Not so many people," he lisps.
"Don't do that."
"Why?"
"It's racist."
The footballer shrugs. "I'm just having a little fun."
"Well, there could actually be a real Spanish person coming tonight."
"You know something I don't?"
"No." The pirate finishes his drink. "Ah."
The footballer tilts his head and squints. "Was that argh?"
"What?"
"Sounds like the start of your punch line to me."
"No it wasn't."
"Admit it! You were so sick of waiting for someone to trip up that you were considering sabotaging yourself." The footballer turns round to peruse the buffet. "You know the rules."
The pirate joins. "Of course I do. Which is precisely why I wouldn't say anything like that."
"If you says so," the footballer says, winking.
The pirate sighs. "'Argh' isn't even a key part of my punch line."
"Oh really? How does it go?"
The pirate glares at him. "I don't know. How does yours go?"
The footballer laughs this off.
The pirate looks over his shoulder. He focuses on a couple at the other end of the room, a man and a woman with things on their head. A paper bag over his face and a small plastic cow wrapped in her hair.
"Who are they?"
The footballer follows his gaze. He breathes in. "Oh no. You won't get me like that."
"Are you seriously telling me their puns are their real names?"
"Yep. Ingenious, isn't it?"
"Annoying more like."
The footballer turns his attention to the door at the front of the room. "Oh shit."
"What?" the pirate asks, turning around.
They both groan as Quasimodo shuffles up to them. He has a bell glued to his left cheek.
"Hello, friends," he lisps.
"That's racist," the footballer remarks, glancing at the pirate.
He shakes his head. "In this case it's just offensive."
Quasimodo grins. "Go on then."
"Go on then what?"
"Say it."
The footballer and the pirate look at each other.
"No," they both answer.
Quasimodo stomps his foot. "Oh, come on! Where's the fun in that?"
"We'll lose if we say the punch line to your stupid little joke," the pirate says.
"Really?"
"You didn't know the rules?"
"I knew to dress up as a joke."
The footballer laughs. "That's only part of it. If someone says the punch line to any joke in here then you lose."
"I lose what?"
"The game."
Quasimodo frowns. "I thought it was a party."
"It is. And this is the big party game."
Quasimodo grumbles, grabbing a pig in a blanket. The eye beneath his plastic forehead bulge lands on a woman entering the party. She is dressed as a giant fish. Its eye has been cut out.
"Now that one is obvious," he says, turning back. "I mean, who would even say that punch line? Doesn't exactly fit into normal conversation."
"No disagreement there," the pirate mutters.
"And how about her friend?" the footballer asks.
Quasimodo watches another woman stumble in on all fours, both of her eyes covered up. She has light brown fur and is definitely meant to be a mammal but he is unsure precisely which one. One horn is far larger than the other on her head.
"Could it be mythical?" the pirate muses out loud.
"Maybe." The footballer flicks Quasimodo in the arm. "What do you think?"
"No idea."
Alarms blare. Confetti falls. Streamers fly. Both the footballer and the pirate grin at their fellow guest as he squeezes his eyes shut in embarrassment. He palms his disfigured face. Everyone at the party cheers.
"And that's the end of the game," the footballer says with a glint in his eye.
Quasimodo groans and looks up. "What do I have to do?"
The pirate rests a hand on his shoulder. "Buy everyone a round of drinks."
Quasimodo turns to the bar.
The footballer laughs. "Unfortunately the booze won't be quite as cheap as the laughs in here."

TODAY AT A CAFE (a.k.a. A Nonfiction Experience from Actually a Few Weeks Ago Now)

The café was all black granite top tables with padded white stools and booths that were difficult to slide into from the eyesore diamond tile floor. Still, it was clean. As I approached the main counter, the man behind it spied me as I passed by an interior design topiary.

            “Hi there,” he began. “Today we have a special deal on curry and rice. You can buy the Jalfrezi, Tikka or Korma for just £6.”

            I nodded along as he showed me the contents of each steel container on the heated display. I looked back up and said, “Can I order a hot chocolate please?”

            He gave out a whiny little laugh but turned towards the steamer behind him. “Is that with whipped cream?”

            “Yes, please.”
            “That’ll be £2.80.”

            As I passed him a fiver, a skinny waiter with a fat yellow tie stopped beside me.

            “Bored,” he announced. The man behind the counter grinned in response. The waiter caught my eye. “And how are you today, sir?”

            “I am fine, thank you. How are you?”

            “I am well. As well as I can be working with this kidder over here.” He gestured at the man behind the counter as he handed me my change. They both giggled. “And what will you be doing after your drink, sir?”

            “Go home.”

            The waiter nodded. “Do you play computer games?”

            I hesitated. “Sometimes. Not as much these days.”

            “You look the intelligent sort. Would you say you’re intelligent?”

            I frowned but laughed it off. “That’s not really for me to say.”

            This was not the most comprehensive of answers. I waited for the interrogation to continue but then the waiter turned, apparently called over.

            “Sorry about that,” the man behind the counter said.

            “That’s all right,” I lied.

      I sat on the opposite side of the topiary, using it as a green leafy window to the only other customer in the building. She tucked into a panini, knife and fork tearing through the thick bread. Her eyes were damp and she had to stop a moment to wipe away the tears. The waiter appeared with fresh napkins for the table which he handed to her personally. Her wedding ring glistened in the light as she touched one of the stiff brown sheets to the corners of her eyes.

"Poor dear," the waiter muttered before moving off in the direction of distant clattering crockery.

I felt bad for looking at the woman so I stopped. Nevertheless, she watched me carefully until she finished her panini.

The man behind the counter came to bring the hot chocolate over to me himself. There was a small biscuit on the saucer. "No extra cost," he said with a smile before returning to his post.

I then took out my phone and lost myself in my emails. Halfway through my hot chocolate, I heard the waiter reappear at the counter.

“Bilal's got a chicken bone in his throat," he told the man.

"Is he choking?"

"Go see for yourself."

The man came out from behind his counter once again, this time in a definite rush. Barely a minute later a short woman with a beehive hairdo arrived to take his place.

"How are you today, sir?" she asked me. I gave her a thumbs up as I crunched my biscuit. 

Raising my phone again, I finished composing my last reply then emptied my cup. I left behind a small crumbly corner of the biscuit. In the meantime, the man had come back and he, the woman and the waiter were all busying themselves behind the counter, all getting in each other's way.

"Thank you," I said. None of them turned to me. A little flimsy wave and I was away, out of the door.

I'm afraid I didn't have the wherewithal to compose a thorough review at the time. Something tells me this here will suffice.

I STOOD ON A HOLE AND OTHER ODD-DATED POEMS (a.k.a. Happy National Poetry Day!)

I STOOD ON A HOLE (2019)

I stood on a hole
because I'm told
on the hole
everything is fine.
It all works out.
Positive.

Except on this hole
the bottom fell out
and now
it's got me down...


GUNFIRE? FIREWORK? (2017)

Gunfire?
Firework?
Work out
outdoors.
Doors close:
close call.
Call cops,
cop out.
Outlast
last night.
Night scares:
scares you.
You hand
handgun.
Gunfire?
Firework?


BLOSSOM GOSSAMER (2015)

Got some blossom gossamer,
bought some blossom gossamer
for those blossom-gossamer-loving
fools.

'Cos there is nothing awesome as
a big old blossom gossamer
atop that foursome's boss Amir's
stools.


WE MAKE ALTERATIONS (2013)

the pillow slips
the duvet covers
the curtain rails
the carpet rolls
the bedside lights
the window blinds

a deal on sheets
and memory foams.


UNWRAPPING TIME (2011)

TIME is an envelope...TIME is not the card.
TIME is a curtain...TIME is not the art.
TIME is a coat...TIME is not the skin.
TIME is all without...TIME is not within.