A Christmas Story
Neither Robin nor Isla had called once since the divorce, he had no idea where either was. So he was going to be on his own at Christmas. He never liked turkey anyway, so it was going to be sardines and French baguette. With a Prosecco accompaniment. It had to be as it was the only bottle in the house.
He had tried hard not to let dark thoughts invade his mind. He was going to enjoy this meal. He had bought the baguette on the 23rd, and had immediately frozen it after cutting it in 4 pieces. It was nice how five minutes in a preheated oven gave it back its crispness. No one would know it was 2 days old. The sardines were Norwegian sild in extra virgin olive oil. The Prosecco was nice and cold.
Cometh the hour, he placed everything on the small table, and proceeded to open the Prosecco. He got rid of the wire easily, and smiled for the first time in three days. He grabbed the bottle, held it by the neck and expertly pushed his two thumbs against the cork, but if it moved at all, it must have been minimally, for he saw no change. I don’t want to take too long over this, he thought, it’s gonna warm up. This time he took a deep breath, and with new strength into his thumbs, and the certainty that this time it would work, he pushed until they became sore. Not one tenth of a bleeding millimetre. Perhaps if I held the bottle between my legs and wrapped the top of the cork with my right hand and pulled and twisted at the same time, I’d do it. Zilch! Niente! Fuck all! If Robin was here he’d have done it with his eyes closed. Sandra told them all those lies about me, and they swallowed them. Never had a chance. And why was Sid considered better than me for that deputy headship? Let me use a cloth, might grip better. The fucking wine is getting warmer by the minute. I hate warm piss! Let me try to use the door. He opened it, put the cork between the frame and the door near the hinge, closed it as far as it would go and pulled. I fucking knew it wouldn’t work. Nothing will help.
By now he was boiling with rage, the pain of frustration in his throat was almost physical. In a fit of rage he hurled the bottle against the brick wall and the whole floor was covered in foam. Fucking White Christmas! He could not control the sobbing, and sat down holding his knees in his hands.
It was then that a shard caught his eye.
