The Dating Game

Chapter Thirty

Juliet

As soon as I woke up on Christmas morning, the first thing I did was text Justin and wish him a merry Christmas.

By the time I got back from the toilet subsequent to texting him, there was a message waiting for me from him. He said nearly the precise thing back to me. I sent another asking what he'd gotten and said merry Christmas to both Michelle and Beth whom were presumably awaiting my texts.

Dad was sat in the lounge with a steaming mug of coffee. He was cooking the meal this year – we alternate every year so it was his unfortunate turn this year. Consequentially, that meant he had to get up early this morning.

"Merry Christmas, Dad," I declared, as well announcing my presence to him because I don't think he was expecting me up just yet with the way he was reading the newspaper carefully; he was still in his slippers and pyjamas, concealed by his navy dressing gown Mom got him all these years back.

Dad, bemused by my abrupt emergence, turned around and endeavoured to not spill any of his caffeinated beverage. The newspaper fell, discarded to his lap. He smiled at me before leaning forwards and putting his coffee on the table. He stood up and we hugged fleetingly.

"Merry Christmas, sport. Breakfast or presents first?" he questioned softly. Then he eyed me suspiciously. "I think we should have breakfast first. You're looking a bit pale. I think you need some energy in you."

I didn't bother even attempting to protest and commencing an altercation. It seemed foolish to squabble about whether to eat breakfast or unwrap presents. But Dad seems quite adamant and instantly began fishing through the fridge to trace the bacon and sausages. I kept to my simplistic mission which was the toast and drinks. Dad and I both had a glass of apple juice. I got the taste for it from him, not Mom. Her preference was always orange juice.

"I'll carry the plates, sport. Can you manage the drinks?" Dad asked, buttering the toast in his spare moment from the sizzling bacon and frying sausages.

"Yeah," I breathed, seizing the glasses.

I transported the drinks and placed them on coasters on the coffee table. A moment later, Dad came carrying the plates by the edges. He passed a random one to me considering they both had equivalent proportions of toast, bacon and sausages. Then we sat down in front of the TV and Dad reached for the remote. He put the news on straight away.

The first topic was that a little girl had been slaughtered just outside of her house in an estate. They showed a picture of what she looked like prior to the butchery. She seemed young with short ginger hair, pale snow white skin and piercing blue eyes. She was smiling in the picture. She was holding hands with a woman – presumably her mom – and her face had been blurred out.

"So morbid," Dad muttered, tearing his toast with his teeth. "That's horrible to show people on Christmas day."

"It's what happens in the world, Dad. It's compulsory for them to show it, despite the day of the year."

Dad, grumbling as he sliced up his bacon, didn't protest articulately. We finished the rest of our breakfast in silence until it got to our presents. We didn't have many. Dad had a few from fellow colleagues at the council at work, but I had two off Michelle and Beth. But we never went very extravagant with our gifts; just some fancy stationary or an article of clothing (or several in the case of socks as a cop-out). Sporadically there were the very lavish gifts that were quite fancy but they weren't anticipated anymore.

I had bought Dad a new batch of shirts, a cook book for healthier meals and a pair of slippers. His old ones – which was a rarity whenever he wore them – were tatted and aged. The new pair were a maroon colour – not too dissimilar to his old ones which he was actually wearing up until the point where he unveiled his new ones. Once he did, he discarded them to the floor and slipped on his new ones which were still carried by the price tag.