Lying back into Steve’s arms, listening to Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes around a beach fire as new and dear friends danced around in the sand under the starry sky, I smiled and started to think that perhaps Christmas could be okay again.
Then, out of the shadows, appeared a girl crying to one of our friends: “You have to come, quickly, your dog just killed another dog.” The animal I had been stroking just moments before had attacked a holidaymaker’s pet. It died on its owner’s leash. Chaos ensued, tears were shed, and the owners decided to use the beach fire as a pyre for their deceased pet.
Together we built up the flames, and the party became a funeral. For me, this wasn’t the first time that death had come at Christmas.