29th November 2017 @ The Bill Murray
It’s 4.52pm on Wednesday the twenty fourth of December when Pollyanna Plunket, briefly distracted by opening a bag of toffees – glances away from the road for no more than a second only to find, upon looking back that an
old man, , from nowhere made his way to the middle of the street. She hits the horn, the man turns, she stamps hard on the brakes and whilst the vehicle, a mid sized motorhome – does slow down, it does not stop. Skidding
on, over glistening black tarmac, careering into the old man -making no visible attempt to move – rooted to the spot, bent over under the weight of a battered red bag – the inevitable impact flips him up over the bonnet and into the windscreen – his eyes oddly calm as they meet hers for a moment before he slumps down the glass, rolling back off the bonnet and out of sight.
A story about possibility and magic and grief and hope and tradition and
Which is to say, Christmas.