THE ROSIE BROWN INTERVIEW

A glass of brown ale for Santa

Roger Noons

    “So John, how many times were you Santa?”

    “Both libraries, for six years, that would be a dozen times.”

    “You must have had a few unusual incidents?”

    “Yes Rosie, though it was mainly what you’d expect: a wet trouser leg: being sick over my Wellington boots. The kids were dead keen, until their mothers pushed them forward. Then shyness crept in, once the child was on my knee, it would often become dumbstruck, remain silent, need prompting, or immediately want to return to mum. I did get the odd smack on the nose.”

    “There must have been one event that stood out?”

    “Yes, but it didn’t concern a child: it was one of the mothers.”

    “Oh?”

    “The librarian always placed a chair for me in the centre of the room, and the parents, occasionally there was a dad, would stand around in a semi circle with the children in front of them. At my side, on the floor, I would put my sack. There was always a small gift for each child.”

    Rosie smiled and nodded.

    “The outfit was borrowed from the local fire station, and it was one size, so it was large: particularly the hood. If I turned my head, the hood stayed where it was, so I could only see what was in front of me. I said goodbye to a small boy and reached down into the sack and felt for a present, but what I located was a woman’s foot. I turned my head and whispered. ‘You’re standing in the sack.’ Either she didn’t hear, or chose to ignore me, as she didn’t move.”

    “Oh my God!”

    “So each time I put my hand in the sack, I ran my fingers up and down her leg, even above her stocking top, but she never budged. After the last child had received it‘s present, I stood up, but parents and children were milling around. I scanned the women’s faces, but saw nothing to indicate which lady‘s leg I had been caressing.”

    “So one of the mums got a gift as well?”

    I smiled.

    “Well, thank you John, I can get a good piece out of that.” We shook hands. “You have very soft skin,” she said. “I wish I’d worn a skirt, you could have given me a demonstration.” 

     

BIO - Roger Noons began writing in 2006, when he completed a screenplay, for a friend who is an amateur film maker. After the film was made, he wrote further scripts, then began short stories and poems. He occasionally produces non fiction, particularly memoirs from his long career in Environmental Health.

The European Gap Year Traveller

Charlie Britten

 

Espresso

 

 

 

From:  George

To:       ‘Auntie Angela’

 

I'm fine.  Honestly, I'm fine.  I wish you'd stop worrying about me.  Yes, I got your text.  And was it necessary to ring me at 10am?  I mean, you woke up everyone in the place where I was staying, which, btw, is not a Youth Hostel.

 

Also, would you please stop asking me about what you call ‘my financial situation’?  Everything is about money with you.  I think I'm managing fine.  Okay, my credit card’s maxed out, but so is everybody else’s.  It’s not my fault the bank insisted on giving me credit, is it?  Another thing.  I didn't like that bit in your last email about people here retiring at fifty-four.  Where did you get that from?  The Daily Mail?  You don't appreciate that it’s different out here.   

 

Having awesome time.  Country really beautiful.  Last night we sat at the bar, watching the red streaks of the sun sink over the horizon.  Then we saw it come up again several hours later as a white ball of light, while we were still sitting there.  Some things are more important than money.

 

George

 

PS Just got your last text, about Uncle Silvio.  He’s well embarrassing.  Tbh, you should be more worried about how he spends his money.

.................................................................................................................

From:  George

To:       ‘Auntie Angela’

 

P-uh-l-ease, could you not start on about Christmas yet? I don't know when I'm going to arrive.  I suppose it’s going to be the usual crowd.  Can you deal with the present thing and I'll pay you back.  Don't worry about Uncle David saying he won't come this year.  It’s what he always says, but he’s never missed yet, has he?  And he always pays his whack in the end, more than some of the other relatives.  Don't put pressure on him.  He doesn't have to come.  I mean, he’s not part of the immediate family, and he can be very annoying, so right-wing. 

 

Generally, can you lighten up on this family thing?  You keep saying we should all see more of each other and do more things together, but I don't know. 

 

I'm fine, Auntie Angela.  Honestly, I'm fine.

 

George

 

............................................................................................................................

From:  George

To:       ‘Auntie Angela’

 

I'm not fine.  Send me several billion, Auntie Angela, please.  As soon as possible, I beg you.  By Western Union, because the banks are all messed up out here.  And don’t get me on the subject of bankers, p-uh-l-ease.

 

Look, I know the whole family’s in the shit money-wise, except for you, my favourite Auntie Angela.  But remember that I asked you first, because, from what I hear, you’ll get more requests for money soon.  Hope you kept receipt for Uncle David’s pressie, seeing as he’s now off the Christmas card list.

 

Can't wait to see you.  Have you made the stollen yet?  Haven’t eaten proper meal in ages.

 

George

*************************************************************************************

Bio

Charlie Britten lives in southern England with her husband and cat.  She writes because she enjoys it and has had her work published in ‘FictionAtWork’, ‘Mslexia’, ‘Long Short Story’, ‘Linnet’s Wings’ and Radgepacket.  Charlie's blog is Lives to Write. Chalrie would love to write to live.  In real life, she is a lecturer in IT at a college of further education.

It's Christmas ... again

Julie-Ann Corrigan

Gin –Mother’s Ruin

It’s early November and already, like a seasonal mythological monster, Christmas begins to loom ominously inside my mind.  I try to blank it out but it’s impossible to escape.

First, the toy adverts begin.  Day and night.  Unremitting.

Then the magazines start with: ‘How to lose weight in three seconds and look like either Madonna or Scarlett Johansson’ depending on which magazine you pick up in your pre-Christmas dental appointment.  And this is only the beginning.  During your weekly supermarket shop you can’t help but wander down the aisles of the Christmas section, buying everything you don’t need; an over-priced Christmas cake, dates, and Brazil nuts.  Items no one in your family will ever eat.  Not to mention the chocolate Santa that your daughter has shoved secretly, beneath the grapes.  It’s only November the second.

The kids, if you’re lucky, are still basking in the fast fading glory of who had the best Halloween outfit; who had the most fireworks.  But this honeymoon period doesn’t last long.  By mid-November you can’t hide your kids from the hype any longer, ‘But Mum, it’s only nine weeks away … that’s only nine Saturdays,’ and you think, my ten year old is right, how am I possibly going to do everything in just nine Saturdays?

And how are you? 

Well, one thing for sure, you won’t be doing it with your partner, will you?  Because no matter how fantastic he is on holiday, at the weekend, and at family funerals, there is something about the Christmas celebrations that alienates the male.

I remember once before marriage and a child, my now husband decided to invite his mum for Christmas lunch.  I was terrified.  I couldn’t cook.  Noticing – too late – the look of sheer terror on my face at the thought of having to produce a turkey with all the trimmings, he proclaimed grandly that he would cook lunch.  I was over the moon.  After opening our presents he set about preparing.  I set about drinking.

Lunch appeared on the table just after six.  I was too drunk to eat it!  After that first Christmas together he never sets foot in the kitchen between the twenty-third of December and New Year’s Eve.

And so; the clock is ticking, the bathroom scales are pulled from their resting place and your child suddenly learns to spell words which were impossible for them in their SATS exams only months before.  Yet, in her enthusiasm to write to Santa, to get what she wants, she suddenly develops the semantic and grammar skills of A.A. Gill.

Buying the presents is the first hurdle to pass, and so you decide to be organised and go for one big shop at Toys r Us. You fall into the same trap as you did last year, buying the ‘must have’ present in good time for the big day; believing the hype that the shop will sell out.  Of course, by the end of November, all people under ten have changed their mind.  They don’t want that ‘must have’ toy – they want another one.  The ‘must have’ one which you’ve already bought has definitely not sold out – there are hundreds of them sitting on the shelf – on offer now.  You’ve mislaid your receipt, so only get back seventy-five per cent of the toy’s original value.

Things are already not looking good.  The husband begins to spend longer at work and your strictness at only allowing ice cream on special occasions is deteriorating rapidly, as you begin – insidiously – to lose your parental nerve.  Anything for an easier life becomes your mantra.

‘How am I going to get to December twenty-fifth?’ you are beginning to ask yourself.  This is before the dreaded phone call around mid-December, when your sister-in-law informs you, for the fourth year in a row, that they are ‘abroad for Christmas’ and ‘can you have Mum?’  Qualifying the request with, ‘You know how she adores being with the kids…’ 

No actually, I don’t know; she hasn’t seen them since last Christmas. But by December fifteenth you’re losing the will to live anyway and your mother-in-law coming to stay is the least of your problems, because your main problem now – mid-December – is THE TREE.

Do we have an artificial, real, fat or thin one; one with dropping or non-dropping needles?  Tree shopping has become like shoe shopping.  Too much choice.  Finally, we pick one and bring it home.  Invariably, everyone including my daughter (who helped me choose it) moans about my choice.  By now I’m anaesthetised to opinion; until my daughter begins to decorate it.  Years of collecting ‘arty’ baubles are wasted as cheerfully, she puts her school-made dough decorations on the tree. 

Opinion begins to manifest itself.  I have to stop myself from yelling, No!  ‘It looks lovely,’ is what I say. 

An earth mother I am not.

Thinking of mothers’, I don’t remember my own mum being this stressed out – she made it look so easy.  I wonder if my own daughter will be thinking the same thing in twenty-odd years’ time?

  

 

Bio:

Julie-Ann writes short stories and articles. She has had short stories published in collections and one of her recent articles was published in Beat Magazine (see her interview with Laura Wilkinson here: )

She has recently completed her first novel and is now working on her second.

SNOWMAN COMPETITION

Roger Noons

Snow ball

‘Can you smell carrots?’ Stanley asked.

‘No,’ replied Sidney. ‘She’s not used one for my nose, it’s somewhat lower down and it’s developed an icicle.’

‘Sound’s interesting,’ interrupted Rupert, in his soprano-like tone.

*

Having overheard this conversation between the snowmen last winter, I was determined that this year’s competition would be more respectable. Things had definitely got out of hand, particularly when the temperature rose on the Sunday afternoon. Scarves and hats were cast aside and all manner of unpleasantness ensued.

So well in advance of the snow forecast, I posted the following on the notice board outside the Village Hall.

Rules for the Building of Snowpersons

1. The maximum height for a snowperson will be 1m (children) and 1.75m (adults).
2. The body shape must be traditional, ie. slightly rotund and definitely not obese.
3. The face must not be fashioned in order to represent any known person or celebrity.
4. In addition to snow, the only other materials allowed will be twigs, small pieces of partially burned solid fuel and shells.
5. The only clothing additions allowed are 1 scarf and 1 hat, per snowperson.
6. In sculpting the snowperson, care should be taken to not give any indication of age, sex, race or sexual orientation.
7. Any entry failing to comply with these rules will be disqualified and destroyed.
8. The decision of the Judge (Me) will be final. No discussion will be entered into regarding the decision.

Signed

Emily Snobtrott, Organiser.

*

It is the closing date tomorrow and not a single entry has yet been constructed. I am beside myself and cannot imagine what on earth has gone wrong.

 

 

BIO - Roger Noons began writing in 2006, when he completed a screenplay, for a friend who is an amateur film maker. After the film was made, he wrote further scripts, then began short stories and poems. He occasionally produces non fiction, particularly memoirs from his long career in Environmental Health.

Lonely this Christmas

                                                                                                         

Alan Cadman

Tea for One

Marjorie ran her fingers across the handful of Christmas cards displayed on the mantelpiece. She picked up her favourite one and read out loud the spidery inscription, ‘To my dearest wife Marge, Merry Christmas, from your loving husband, Albert.’ The edges of the card had curled a little, but it still looked in good condition; considering it was ten years old.

            ‘He was a good man, my Albert,’ Marjorie said, ‘I miss him terribly. Heart attack . . . so sudden.’ She dabbed her eyes. ‘He was strong as well . . . who could have known?’ She flung open the lounge curtains and looked outside. ‘Rupert,’ she called, ‘I’m afraid there isn’t any snow for us this year.’ Rupert swished his tail by the fireplace, blinked open his feline eyes, and led her to his empty bowl in the kitchen.

            She wagged a finger at him. ‘You’re such a greedy cat. I’ve only just fed you . . . at least I think I have.’ She opened a tin of Felix. ‘I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt this time.’ She stroked the cat, who purred and rubbed against her hand.

            Marjorie shuffled back to the lounge. Her thoughts drifted to her only surviving relative; her daughter Susan. ‘Well, Australia is a long way from here,’ she shouted over her shoulder, ‘and things do get lost in the post. Susan always phones me every Christmas morning though. All right, I’ll be honest with you, Rupert, it’s me who rings her, but she is a very busy woman and there’s the time difference to consider as well.’

            Rupert joined her by the fireside. Marjorie held up a colourful parcel and tore it open. ‘Anyway, it’s time for our presents. You first.’ She pushed a tin of red salmon in front of the cat who yawned and curled up into a ball.

            ‘You do test my patience, Ruby . . . I mean, Rupert.’ She shook her head. ‘Did I just call you Ruby? Of course I didn’t. I might be old, but I’ve still got all of my faculties. In fact in ten years time,’ Marjorie went on proudly, ‘I’ll receive a birthday card from the Queen.’ She glanced at the mantelpiece. ‘It would be even nicer if she sent me a Christmas card.’

            Marjorie rubbed her hands, ‘I’ll open my gift now.’ She feigned surprise and clutched the shiny black tin to her chest. ‘Earl Grey, my favourite.’

            Her eyes widened at the sound of a vehicle approaching her bungalow. ‘Oh, Rupert, It seems like we’ve got visitors!’ She twitched the net curtains. Her shoulders slumped. ‘It’s for next door. They have their groceries delivered in a van. Wait a moment, surely there aren’t any deliveries on Christmas day?’

            She drummed her fingers on the window sill. ‘Of course, silly old me, today is Christmas Eve . . . well I think it is. I’ll have to wrap those presents up again, just like I did yesterday.’

            Rupert padded along the hallway. The rattle of the cat flap echoed around the room. Marjorie held a new sheet of paper and a roll of Sellotape in her hands. ‘Don’t worry, let’s be positive. We’ve still got it all to look forward to again tomorrow morning.’

Bio: Alan has been writing short stories for three years. His published work has mainly been rewarded with complimentary issues from magazines. His first and only cheque, so far, arrived on Christmas Eve 2009. Before that, he was editor of a civic society newsletter for seven years.

Desperate Measures

Trevor Belshaw

Frothy coffee and  with roasted chesnuts

Michael Keagan stared despondently at the bleak winter sky. The light snow that had started to fall half an hour ago had become heavier and begun to settle.
‘Fabulous,’ he whispered, ‘the first Christmas snow we get in decades and I’m stood around in it, freezing to death.’
Cursing under his breath, he pulled his hood forward, checked his watch for the 20th time and wondered, once again, why he had chosen to wear trainers instead of the warm winter boots that were sitting under the stairs at home.

Christmas Eve wasn’t the best time to do a spot of breaking and entering, he decided.

Keagan looked around, the garden was quiet. His hiding place could not be overlooked by the neighbours, he had chosen well. The laurels were excellent cover and he could see into the drawing room clearly. The occupants, a man in his 40s and a slightly younger woman, were sat together in front of an open fire, drinking and sharing some joke or happy memory.

Keagan willed them to go to bed, it was 11.45. It couldn’t be much longer now surely? There was a child in the house, kids always got up early on Christmas day. Parents usually got up with them.
Five minutes later his patience was rewarded. The couple left their fireside seats and headed for the door leading to the stairs. The man remained for a while, turned off the Christmas tree lights and placed a metal guard in front of the coal fire. He checked his watch as he left the room; closing the door behind him.
Keagan watched as the stair light was turned off. It was replaced by a bedroom light and the duller light of the en suite close by. Not long now. He reached for a cigarette then decided it was too risky. He would have to wait.

Ten minutes later the lights were extinguished. He hoped the pair weren’t feeling amorous.

Keagan waited in the shrubbery for another thirty minutes before he decided it was safe enough to proceed. He took a final glance at the upstairs window and hurried across the lawn, crouching as he ran. The snow was coming down heavier than ever and would quickly cover any footprints he left behind.
Still crouching, he crossed the patio and headed for a set of French doors. A pair of small garden statues guarded them, one either side of the frame. Keagan lifted the right hand statue carefully and groped underneath until he found a key. He grinned and nodded to himself. He knew it would be there; people were so lax about security matters.

With a trembling hand, he turned the key in the lock. The door opened with a low groan, the warm air that greeted his entry, welcome after the freezing two hour reconnaissance. Keagan dipped into his pocket and pulled out a small pencil torch. Sliding a tiny button forward he shone the thin beam around the room. The door he wanted was on the left and with a few quick strides he crossed the timber floor and let himself into the drawing room.

The fire had begun to die down but gave out enough light to enable him to turn off the torch. Keagan wandered over to the Christmas tree, a dozen parcels lay underneath. Picking a couple at random he shook them, guessed the contents then returned them to the pile.

‘Now for the tricky bit,’ he thought.

He walked to the stair door and slowly eased the handle down. He grimaced as it creaked open, didn’t anyone lubricate hinges anymore? Keagan waited for a full minute in case the sound had been heard, but no-one stirred in the rooms above. He decided to leave the door ajar, for his heart as much as anything else. The noise had un-nerved him.
On tip toe and grateful now for his decision to wear the trainers, Keagan crept up the stairs a step at a time, listening intently for any sound of movement.
At the top he halted and waited for a few seconds; all was quiet. He turned to the right, eased open the white painted door in front of him and entered the bedroom. A small night light glowed on the bedside table, he smiled to himself; she never had liked the dark.

Keagan looked toward the small figure curled up under the covers and caught his breath. The girl was asleep, breathing softly, deep in dreams; her golden hair spread over the pillow. He moved slowly to the side of the bed, reached into his pocket and brought out a small package containing a bracelet and a short letter. Holding his breath, he gently lifted her hand and laid the package on the coverlet, then set her hand on top. Instinctively, he leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.
He wanted to stay longer, but he daren’t. He wanted to wake her, to tell her he loved her, to tell her he hadn’t forgotten, but that could end in disaster. Laura’s mother had steadfastly refused him access, despite the court order he had won. She had even refused to pass on gifts and messages. Were she to discover him in this burglar role, her revenge would know no limits

Keagan leaned over her again, whispered, ’Soon, my darling,’ then, wiping away a tear, he turned and left the room as quietly as he had entered it.
Back outside, Keagan replaced the key under the statue and took a last look at the house he knew so well, the house he used to share with Laura before life had become so difficult. His lawyers had insisted that access would be granted in the New Year. It all should have been sorted out much sooner. Had it been left to Laura’s mother and him, it would have been.

Once on the street he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. The snow fell steadily. It was in for the night, there would indeed be a white Christmas; Laura would love that.
Back in the car Keagan lit another cigarette, fired up the engine, turned on the radio and adjusted the dial for the heater. He had a two hour drive ahead of him, but the journey would be shortened by the feeling of a job well done.

As he was about to pull away he heard a beep from his pocket. Keagan checked the phone; a text message was waiting in his inbox.

'Thanks Dad, I love the bracelet. Happy Christmas! Laura.

Through misty eyes, Keagan checked his mirrors, pulled away from the kerb and turned up the radio. As he drove along the deserted High Street he heard the familiar voice of Bing Crosby wishing everyone a merry Christmas.
‘Someday soon we all will be together, if the fates allow. Until then we’ll have to muddle through somehow...’
Keagan nodded in agreement and headed toward the motorway.

Bio: Trevor Belshaw , aka Trevor Forest, is a writer of both adult and
children's fiction. Trevor is the creator of Tracy’s Hot Mail and has
just released a book of short stories entitled, Designer Shorts.
Writing asTrevor Forest, he has released four children’s books in
paperback and e-book formats. Trevor’s short stories have been published
in many anthologies including 100 Stories for Haiti, 50 Stories for
Pakistan, 100 Stories for Queensland and Shambelurkling and other
Stories. Many of his short stories have been published by Ether Books.
Trevor is a regular contributor to The Pages e-zine. His latest
children's book, Stanley Stickle HAtes Homework, will be released late 2011.
Twitter@tbelshaw
Facebook Trevor Belshaw and Trevor Forest
Website: http://www.trevorbelshaw.com
Blog: http://www.trevorbelshaw.com/blog
Trevor Forest: http://www.trevorforest.com

A SWEET TOOTH AT CHRISTMAS – a Slice of Paradise

                                              Julie- Ann Corrigan

                                                    sweet sherry

As Halloween, Bonfire Night, and finally November fades into recent history, there is nothing that reminds me more of the passage of time than the onset of Christmas preparations.

    More than looking in the mirror, passing birthdays and children growing outrageously tall; the beginnings of Christmas rudely reminds me of the changes all our lives are subtly undergoing.

    I remember a time when the Festive Season meant dressing up, going out to parties and opening unexpected, luxury presents on Christmas morning.

    I got away with any festive preparations until I was well into my thirties.  Even after having a child of my own we would still pack up the car on Christmas Eve and zoom up to my old home.

 Dropping bags and gear on my mum’s kitchen floor I marvelled at her baking skills.  The house smelled of freshly baked mince pies and her famous Paradise Slice.  Of vanilla essence from the homemade custard she only made at Christmas.

    One thing you have to understand about my mum was her obsessive interest in all things sweet.  The turkey and trimming came a poor second to the massive selection of cakes displayed yearly, on the sideboard in the dining room.  My husband said once that he could feel his cholesterol rising by smelling the air.  I told him not to be paranoid.  My mum looked all right on it didn’t she?  Although sometimes I did wonder how she kept her size eight figure.

    Time passes though.

    The year finally came when it became difficult to spend Christmas in my childhood home.  Mum and Dad couldn’t quite manage the whole Christmas thing.  Our daughter was getting older and it was becoming increasingly difficult to persuade her that Santa knew where we were located on Christmas morning. 

    So there I was – inviting my whole sweet-toothed family to ours for Christmas.

    I had finally grown up.

    I was doing the festive season.

My brother called to make sure I would be carrying on in the family tradition and be making ’Mums Paradise Slice.’  ‘I didn’t know you liked it,’ I said.  ‘I know, but its part of Christmas isn’t it?  he replied.  A bead of sweat trickled down my forehead anticipating what else might be ‘part of Christmas.’  To be as good as my mum was a lot to ask.  It felt like a gargantuan undertaking.

    How could I possibly live up to everyone’s expectations – including my own?

    I decided to be organised.  I would start early.  I adored my mum and I wanted her to have all the best cake and trifle she could possibly eat. I wanted to take over the Olympic flame of Christmas efficiently.  I wanted her and Dad to be proud.   Maybe I would try something different, perhaps Delia’s famous chocolate bread pudding?  A banana and chocolate trifle?  My imagination ran away with itself.

My husband re-named me the Tesco Terminator as I trawled the supermarket aisles like the fictional cyborg character.  I scanned the products and prices as efficiently as Arnie had scanned for human warmth and movement. He told to calm down.  Chill out, I think was his phrase as I passed by the chilled aisle like an automaton. 

  My mum called constantly, telling me not to go to too much trouble.  My brother heard on the family grapevine I was worried about ‘doing’ Christmas. Did I want to cancel?  ‘No’ I shouted into the phone, ‘I can manage.’

    December unfolded.  Invitations dropped through the door with the same consistency as the bills would do in January.  I was a party girl by nature and having a house, child, husband and a Christmas to prepare for was not about to stop me enjoying myself.  I wanted to be super-woman and do everything. 

    My freezer was full.  I made the trifle and pud in advance.  But by Christmas Eve the fridge bulged like a supermarket shelf.  I had to ask my neighbours (who always spent Christmas in a local bistro), if I could use their fridge to store the last of my efforts, including the most impressive chocolate and banana trifle.  While I was round there, I put the turkey in their fridge too.

    As we wrapped the last of Santa’s presents, I couldn’t ignore the dreaded feeling in my throat any longer.  I told myself off for finishing the last of the mulled wine; my head was thumping.

    Christmas had begun and I was steadily beginning to feel worse as my sore throat threatened to turn into something more sinister, but I didn’t care.  I was supremely organised – everyone kept telling me so.

Santa’s visit was prolific.  Toys and people engulfed our house.  I knew I had flu, but kept it to myself.  I only needed to get through the day.  After the usual early Christmas breakfast (four-thirty apparently is okay on Christmas morning), I went to get my neighbours key to retrieve various cakes, trifles and the turkey. 

    It wasn’t where I thought I’d had left it.  It was nowhere to be found.  My daughter was left to her own devices as the whole family searched for the key. 

It had vanished as spectacularly as Santa had done. 

All day it was missing.

The trauma of having a turkey-free Christmas though, seemed to cure my sore throat. 

So we had no turkey, no trifle, and no pudding.   My daughter thought it was a hoot eating chips on Jesus’s birthday.  My mum discovered a love of jaffa cakes, my husband admitted he’d never liked trifle anyway and my dad, well my dad only chuckled at his daughter who he proclaimed loudly, would never truly grow up. 

    It was I believe, the best Christmas ever.

    I think I will though, if you don’t mind, put off growing up for a little while yet.  Next year we’re back at Mum and Dads for Christmas.  Mum can clearly cope better than me – hopefully for some years to come.  Together with our daughter, we have already e-mailed Santa well in advance with our plans and location for next Christmas.

    By the way, the key was nestling snugly in my dressing gown pocket and the neighbours loved the trifle.

                                       

 Bio:

Julie-Ann writes short stories and articles. She has had short stories published in collections  and one of her recent articles was published in Beat Magazine (see her interview with Laura Wilkinson here: )

She has recently completed her first novel and is now working on her second.