The Jolly Old Season

There’s a man in a santa hat drinking a baby Guinness with a tiny woman who

looks as if she will fall over with every breath. A scruffy wee dog looks on at the interlopers to his hallowed space, his eyes mournful as their guffaws reach every corner of the pub.

I sip my fully grown Guinness and check the time, it’s barely past seven, the photocopiers still warm in the office from whence they came, already they are anew, ties loosened, blouses skewed, faces blush with the jolly old season.

I sit at the bar, far from the stench of mulled wine, my eyes on the dog, sharing his bereavement of our space, cursing the unwritten law that states that we both have to tolerate these strangers, straining themselves to wring out what they can of the jolly old season.

It will be over soon, little one, soon these will be back in their armchairs, all the wisps of drunken romance with someone half their age will have been sucked up and away leaving a chalk outline where the bodies once lay.

I take my leave and the wind from the sea slaps my face, I look back through the window, the dog now lying down, curled by the fire, his eyes drooping, dropping into slumber. Aye, little one, if we sleep,it will all be over soon enough.