Banality

Sitting tight together. Every limb clenched tight in angry suspense.
Eyes clamped so closed that she could feel a hot line where the lid
rims ached. She watched the colours burst, fade and swirl and she
hoped. She hoped so much that she could almost convince herself that
there was a chance it could happen.
The musty smell of unused air enclosed and calmed her in this shuttered
moment and the noise of enforced, polite happiness drifted under the
door. Though she had no way of knowing, she could see every house in
the street, every street in the town, town in the city and city in
every civilised western country. Every house like theirs that is. Every
house with enough conformity to overspend and overeat at
Christmas.
Packing too many people in houses with too much food and drink and not
enough in common to be friends and not different enough to be of
interest to each other.
'Who'd like another mince pie?'
'Pass me the TV guide.'
'Let's play cards.'
They would all go for a walk on boxing day to blow away their bored
indulgence. On their walk they would see other related strangers
discussing the minutiae of life.
'Just painted the downstairs toilet. It's very tasteful. We went to one
of those DIY stores and got all the latest bits. Got the idea from one
of those house fix-it programmes. It looks lovely. Original. You
know?'
'How's Uncle Bob's toothache?'
If she hoped hard enough maybe there wouldn't be a Christmas next year.
Maybe she wouldn't have to look around her and compare it with how she
knew life was for those who didn't have a house let alone an overdraft.
Or maybe, just maybe, she'd be able to mention this without being told
to stop spoiling things. That she should enter into the spirit of
it.
And as the colours swirled and burst knew that her opinion of Christmas
was just as jaded as the crackers, balloons and sherry