Where you hope that the flu relief capsules kick in before you sneeze into the hair of the boy in front, and drip snot - just a drop - onto your carol sheet.
Where you wink at Joseph as he grand entrances next to your aisle seat, to have the step-dad of Jesus stick out his tongue - just the tip - in et tu response.
Where a shepherd with sheep - just the one - focuses intently on his grand entrance, all the better to miss his mum’s wink.
Where a young girl again fights valiantly - just a bit - with the descant, and her mum sings out loud and low in hope that just one girl - just one - might understand that singing does not have to be high and that leaving the high singing to the skylark might be a good idea if you feel yourself to be a warm-throated I dunno owl or something.
Where you don’t Hands Together And Eyes Closed, with a zigzag - just a frissant - of imprinted primary school rebellion, because this is Solstice and this is Saturnalia and who apart from Monty Python says the Son of Man, Son of God’s sun’s in Capricorn anyway, dammit.
Where two adults and two kids in different parts of the church wiggle their hips - just an inch , one two three, left right left - at the very end of Oh Come All Ye Faithful cos a chap in a large papier mache head once sung it as a cha cha cha.
Chrihiiist The Lord, cha cha cha.
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