There can never be a more succinct joining of family get togethers as when we held our Christmas dinner in the clinic. Whilst cousin Cathy was having her womb scraped clean of her fathers mistakes, in the cold sterile chamber beyond, we sang carols and drank sherry in the bright yellow waiting room. We listen to Kate Bush and bite big marks off a fresh cooked turkey which Father is handing arround. Juice and fat run hurriedly over our chins. When she emerges walking bandidly on week legs, tears streaming, we cheer and laugh. Aunt G, who’s a Papist shouts abuse and throws a bag of flour on her. But its a prank, soon hugs drown out the laughs. The carols resume as our celebrations continue, presents are given and received. Our family has never been this close, our joy as complete. Later we drink the useless little smudge of human flesh my brother removed.


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