The week before Christmas the large store heaving with people, indeed Christmas eve, crashing metal baskets or even plastic ones, no apologies, one women wide eyed, frantic, ploughing her way through the isles, literally pushing people aside to get to the last gateaux, looking lonely and forlorn and yet majestic with all its icing and accoutrements, many frantic in the race to get to the pastry counter before her.
This lady usually dignified quiet and apologetic but this was a matter of do or die, this prize CAKE IS MINE-----at all costs.
Speaking to the bus driver, drawing deeply on his cigarette, smoke flowing from his mouth mixed with the frosty air, looking perplexed at the rushing passengers heading towards his bus, laden full to the brim, he recounts a tale of the 'dreaded week before Christmas', perplexed he tells of the road rage and cyclists knocked off their motor cycles and pedal bikes by large expensive cars and demonic drivers rushing home with the turkey and the back seats and boots full with shopping and presents, some with Christmas trees protruding from the windows.
The God of Mammon and the Deity of Materialism have their days of worship and devotion, the Golden Calf resurrected, and the ego to have the most resplendent party, to get stuffed with food with alcohol and indigestion, the TV on watching the regurgitated oldies and then feeling drowsy and feeling they must keep awake for the Queen's speech not really taken in, whilst the Ghost and Spirit of Christmas waits to be greeted and the homeless shivering in the cold go unnoticed and a war torn planetary carnage are still in full cry.
SHACK
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