he annual aroma Christmas fruit pudding and brandy enveloped my senses
he annual aroma Christmas fruit pudding and brandy enveloped my senses. The incessant chatter and soft jazz music streams through my ears as I try to zone away from my mother’s heated breath and voice screeching into me. In my peripherals I see the glow of the only aspect of Christmas that concerns me, the presents. Frustration streams through me, as I am forced to sit and eat this wet pudding, whilst I waitto pounce. The sour taste of being patronized assaults me. I don’t even like sultanas why I am being restrained here and eat this pudding. The family is gathered here to share the presents, not eat plentiful food. My temper is rising in rage; I am fed up of sitting at the stupid kiddies table with my 2 year old cousins that whine and throw food. I deserve to be treated and respected… I’m old now, I’m ten. This is personally bothering me. “LET ME OPEN THE BLOODY PRESENTS!” I have lost it, after hours of patiently waiting, the anticipation is proving too much, I need to know, I need to clutch the materialistic presents. The tears stream down my baby skin cheeks as I begin to whale, screaming “why do I never get my own way, I am opening my presents”. Finally after hours of obsessive eating and talking about nonsense, the present time in the schedule for Christmas has arrived. As my family gather around the Christmas tree,
