Impromptu vaguely seasonal flash I scribbled this morning in response to a Facebook message from David Oprava. I read it back just now and quite liked it, so figured I'd post it here as well.
Old Nic
Old Nic's standing down at hunch, sheltered like always in the toyshop door. He's working out the matted tugs in his beard, fingers tangling its length. Chicken stew dribbled, he's thinking, slop in a bowl at the church hall last evening. Pissy do-gooders. What's he needing slop and a party hat for, when a biscuit and tea might have served his self better.
So this is Christmas, Old Nic's chuckling, spent up after his night, snugging his mac closer at the bite of it. Wrap warmer, yes.
He's been watching the row of terraces over the way since dawn, trying to catch the first signs of wake from within. He fancied he caught giggling from an upstairs window at a point, but then nothing. A disturbed dream, or mam and dad catching some in the early hours before the kids start up. Ungrateful buggerers, Old Nic's thinking, wondering why he bothers, year on year.
Still, it's good and quiet in the now. For the while at least, until the backing and forthing, until wraps are shred from disposable offerings, until the labels come tangled as his beard and no one can say what came from Aunt Beet, what from mum and what from who knows.
Old Nic's standing hunched in the doorway, snugged tight against the chill, enjoying quiet in the moment, thinking Happy Thursday, Happy Thursday.