In progress...

In the dark old pub in front of the fire. Flames leap to their annihilation. Walls of bare red brick, carpet of blue tartan, old-pub wood everywhere. Not a soul but me. Enjoying my last day here. Or maybe there'll be one more, if they allow it. It's quiet save the clugging of the pendulum in the grand-dad clock. Dusty glass face. Grime of years' gathering. Except for this, silence. Noble silence of the coffered snug. I sip my whisky, I hear the clock clug and sigh away from myself. Not too far, but far enough for the naming of things to become an irrelevance. Nothing quantifiable now, save the clug. I don't care. Clothes I've made of this quiet. The chair creaks under my weight. I sip my whisky. This the last day.
All that old misery. But once wasn't enough for you.

Memory: I remember the atmosphere of Christmas in my house. On this one occasion in the year, symbols of plenitude everywhere. Mum would buy both the Radio Times and the TV Times. As thick as catalogues, brimful of televisual enchantments to see us through until January. Mum forever in the kitchen boiling vegetables or checking the chicken or preparing a between-meals treat for us; dad idle and farting in the armchair, 'topping up' on his favourite Quality Streets. Never the coffee creams. Say the words and watch him wince. Mum would start buying goodies for Christmas in September, dowsing for bargains in Tesco, Asda, Morrisons, Pioneer, Netto. Even Marks and Spencers. By Christmas Eve the cupboards were spilling with provisions. It seemed impossible, to think we could get through all of it.
Always that reflexive holding of breath, knowing it would all be over soon. The sad bare walls after the decorations were pulled down.
But it would last long enough for us to feel the glut. The rich, cloying belly glut. The telly trance. Delicious Christmas torpor going on for days and days.
- Who remembers the war?
- Which war?
- Oh, I don't know, all of 'em.
- No one remembers all of 'em.
- No one remembers any of 'em.
- Don't be silly, 'course they do. The second world war.
- I'm telling you: Nothing. Is. Remembered.