BOXING DAY SAINSBURY’S

I was suddenly in Sainsbury’s. Boxing Day Sainsbury’s. A man was dismantling the Christmas tree in the entrance, removing baubles on his step ladder.

“Aw that’s sad,” said Sammy.

“Yeah,” I agreed, dolefully. Completely expectable though. As soon as it stops making money from lovely old Christmas, the supermarket moves on to the next thing, without a care in the world for the cosy season left behind. Crackers give way to Prosecco and party balloons. It’s the way of things these days.

Inside, the light was too bright. Maybe it was the greyness of the sky over the car park, perhaps the contrast of gloomy clouds and supermarket-approved plasma lighting, but nevertheless Sainsbury’s was migraine-white today.

And gone was the Christmas music of last week. In its place a continuous beep, coupled with the sprinkle-sound of the handheld zappers being released from the bank of handsets. Trolley wheels rattled, Starbucks puffed and steamed, and above it all that high-pitched alarm, drilling annoyingly into everybody’s head, but just on the bearable side of annoyance. We were only there for a few bits. I was already on edge because Sammy had grabbed a basket, which, while more promising than a trolley, still indicated that we’d be there longer than I’d expected.

We were on our way home from my Mum and Dad’s house. For reasons I can’t explain at all, I’d started to cry when I said goodbye to them. In the middle of all that wrapping paper (wrappaging, as my niece hilariously calls it) I had been overwhelmed by tall sweary teenagers, little boys who don’t really know who I am, and the continuing despair of not really belonging. There was no way to launch into all that, hugging my Mum, as Sammy and I left though. She looked at my watery eyes and just said, “I do love you, you know,” and then, “Go on, get home,” and I swallowed a lump in my throat.

It’s hard to define this Christmas. In some ways it’s as though everything has happened as usual, but in a disconnected way. I’ve felt like a spectator, watching Christmas unfold but having no impact on or benefit to the pitch. That can’t be true.

My favourite thing was last night, after a long day. We got in, the tree lights went on, the hot Ribena came out and we simply sank into the sofa, laptop open, cosy and warm. It seems the older I get, the more doing nothing in particular appeals to me.

We left the blaring Sainsbury’s and made our way back to the car through the drizzle. As we unlocked, carrier bags digging into our fingers, a white car screamed around the tarmac and swung into a parking space. The music thundered out of its boot. Glass was rattling, the air was shaking, and that dreadful bass resonated from car to building to car like a sort of sonic weapon.

How can he not know how loud that is? I thought to myself. It was no use saying that out loud; I’d have needed an amplifier. The driver sat resolute inside, his car shuddering with sound. Next to him, two other car alarms were going off, no doubt triggered by the wave of noise emanating from the stadium-cranked speakers in his boot.

It’s tough to think of anything less Christmassy. I sighed as we climbed into the car and Sammy turned the ignition. The boy in the white car, switched his music off, climbed out, and beeped his car as he headed off to Sports Direct. Silence returned, like the falling of a beautiful twilight. Perhaps even the stars came out of hiding from the purplish grey clouds overhead. I like silence. I like a cosy, warm, Christmassy, silent night where indeed, all is calm, and all is bright. Just not as bright as the inside of Sainsbury’s please.