bad or good.

Zig went to bed usual time, unusual for the last week of school. A bit grey under the eyes after three trips to the loo. No book, lights straight off. Unusual.

Corrie on, fleecy blanky up to my neck, I settled into the sofa. Mol's pattern down the stairs:

Mum, what's that music?

I knew. I couldn't hear it, my ears are poor, but I knew.

I don't know, love. I can't hear anything.

It's loud upstairs. Hang on.

Mol's pattern up the stairs. Mol's pattern down the stairs.

It's that van thing, that float thing. It's coming down the Close, dead slowly, with loads of lights and stuff.

Just as I'd settled.

Awrugh. I've just settled. Zig's in bed.

It doesn't matter. Zig's in bed.

Mol's pattern up the stairs.

.

Mol's pattern down the stairs.

Mum, there are people coming to the doors with buckets.

Awrugh.

I'll do it mum.

Okay love, just get the pot out of the Schweppes jar.

The pot is got and brought. The knock's just before I sift half a hand of change into Mol's.

She disappeared into the hall and opened the door. I heard the man with the bucket ask if anyone would like to see Father Christmas.

No thanks.

Okay love, he said softly, thanks.

Thanks. Bye!

Back to me.

Did you not want to see Father Christmas, Mol?

Nah. And Zig's in bed

Big smile. Mol's pattern up the stairs.

I had a sudden gulletful of warm, reaching sadness. I wanted my girl to see Father Christmas. I wanted my boy to too.

Mol's pattern down the stairs.

He's not even fat! Father Christmas is not even fat!

I wait for my window-watcher's newly adolescent comment on men in suits.

He must be making room for all the mince pies.

A smile. Mol's splendid pattern up the stairs.

I'm shocked at my grief. Corrie is Eastenders now, the fleecy blanky is down to my ankles, with a cat atop. I can't seem to stop crying.