Christmas Massacre

Ok, Ok, Okay - the goose about to be cooked. In our house, it is a 10-pounder or "a rather modest bird" my wife says.  Sonnet sticks her hand in the goose's, er, ass and pulls out the accompanying gizzards and fat, which takes a moment to appreciate: "foie gras!" which she now fries up for buttered toast.  I live my life between foie gras.  Meanwhile the living room a bomb fall-out and the Shakespeares ignore my reasonable request to clean it up before dinner time - in unison "yeah, right, Dad."  They are glued to the television.  They stuff themselves with chocolate. They refuse to go outside.  I do what every dad does at this point: bail.  Katie and I head for the Tate Modern and a walk.  Everything closed - everything, including the trains and Starbucks. The trains no surprise but Starbucks?

Eitan whistles: "Mo-om. Will you come here please? Mo-om - can you come here now?! Mo-om why aren't you listening to me?"