Goose

The boy and I stand, in the rain, for our Christmas goose. Same as it ever was.  Our local chop good and butcher Dave scores us tickets to the Fulham matches. He also cuts a good joint. Gruesome but waddyagonnado? Otherwise us dads stamp our feet in the cold and eyeball the line's progress.  I tell Eitan to get me the papers and himself some "match attacks" which excites him considerably.  That and the £20 note he palms ("change, please" I command). Eventually the rain/sleet so miserable I begin to wonder if dangerous as Eitan turns blue; Sonnet arrives in a nick of time to spirit him away. Ah, yes, we do have our traditions.