The grey frozen frostlight gives way to a risen sun's perfect golden amberness that gloriously bathes the casement windows, now running wildly with breath and perspiration-induced condensation, with a glowing warm fullness spread throughout the muggy kitchen. The ringing striplight, still on but no longer necessary, radiates its harsh light unnoticed until the slightly desiccated mistletoe suspended with red ribbon is glimpsed, and then – 'flick!' – it's off and some corners instantly become a little darker as the door slams.
Beside the steaming, sudful sink is a satisfying pile of plates, bowls, mugs and frying pans and a bristling hedgehog of sparkling cutlery and utensils, the breakfast detritus of a sensually aromatic and thoroughly filling wake-up tea and toast, corn flakes and porridge, eggs, bacon, tomatoes, beans, sausages, black pudding, more toast and one smoked kipper for dad. Apart from the inevitable milk and tea grey smudges, only a ring stain from the brown sauce bottle marks the tablecloth ensuring its necessity replacement before the big lunch.
Despite the telly's excited morning prattle, carelessly left on by the house's youngest, the silence betrays the day's family dog walk. All jaunty boots, scarves and hats, they stride through the shady park's unlit grass still white with the night's frozen dew, long dark ski-like trails betraying their course. A pause is made beside the pond's shimmery surface to see the busy ducks waddle over, here and there breaking through the paper-thin ice. Cold toes hurry their town centre route back past rows of gleaming, tranquil shops – festive lights blinking monotonously from beyond the fake snowed-up window frames (none but the largest, stubborn supermarkets are open). In the still, brilliant blue above the stumpy knuckles of the avenue's pollarded sycamores and green felt-tip beech trunks a cycle of chilly rooks hover and flap, hover and land and beyond a slow-circling buzzard in from the fields casts a hungry eye over them before gliding on. Beyond still, the vapour trails of a mid-morning's New York flight cuts through the stratosphere.
The tap-tap-tap of the ignition commands the boiler to life – a tumble of wasted steam bursts from the little chrome chimney and a new surge of heat floods around the skirting pipes, through the walls and into each of the bland, white radiators; the tucked towel on the bathroom rad sheds the last of the showered moisture, a slow air current ruffles the plastic suspended decoration, a holly berry silently drops to the carpet from the sprig above the big picture frame and the suffering window sill palm dries out a little more. The kitchen's windows unhurriedly clear leaving only the recalcitrant panes corners to resist. Upon the hastily wiped surface beside the old worn toaster rests a large bowl of tropical fruits – cool bananas, a pineapple with browning leaf ends and a large rock-hard mango, all destined to be used in a forthcoming Boxing Day fruit salad. The unlit cooker supports lidded pans of salty water; peeled potatoes, crossed brussels, cauli and carrots combined, and beneath it all the lone light of the oven hints that the locally-reared goose is already half-an-hour into its low heat adventure in advance of dinner time, the wonderful savoury fat dripping steadily into the tray.
Outside, only a blackbird's panicked scream-twitters mar the stillness, the guttering abruptly cracks with sunlit expansion and at the end of the garden a squirrel hops in tail-bound arcs, turning over enough leaves to find anything that moves, later beginning the hated gnawing of the garden's hedged sycamore bark at its thinnest point. The TV, now showing a film, drums out chase music with sporadic excited dialogue: only the approaching yelling footsteps of children brings the house back to normalcy, the first back hanging onto the door handle with reddened hands as plumes of caught hot breaths cloud the side passageway. Within seconds the jangly key is turned and with a shout of 'Boots off!' bodies and cold air enter the stuffy kitchen. The kettle is filled, gloves and dumped coats picked up and pegged, raw cheeks and fingertips begin their thaw and sweaty jumpers be-drape the backs of chairs. A door opens as a toilet flushes, quick footsteps drum up the stairs and the phone rings. The door finally closes and the dog, minus his lead, shakes, sups enough water and, panting lightly, heads for the centre of the kitchen floor to unceremoniously lay his head on the tiles and make sure he gets under everyone's feet.
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