Christmas arrives like a decades-deep feud draped in tinsel, the group chat still issuing orders about sprouts and who is prohibited from carving after last year’s unspoken unpleasantness.
The kitchen becomes a proving ground where uncles rediscover supposed Escoffier bloodlines, despite never having coaxed flavour from anything more complex than beans on toast. The heating suggests preparations for tropical orchids. A chair is dragged with such purpose the family tree rustles overhead, and someone volunteers to wash up purely to hide in the utility room and message a confidant.
