And it’s Christmas. So you sit around a tree, and there are not enough chairs for everyone. Someone gets uncomfortable on a floor, or an occasional stool. Everyone is seated at a different height, not quite fitting in a photo. You stretch your arms as far as they will go…SMILE…nobody smiles. Except you. Granny twiddles her thumbs and stares at her skirt, mother runs to the kitchen, because, FUCK, something is burning. Dad mumbles about gadgetry-it was different when you could shake it like a Polaroid picture. Everyone wishes for a different type of potato. Mashed or creamed or roasted or all of them. Never enough. Brothers and sisters and neighbours and friends wait. They wait for the presents. You had to buy presents, even if you didn’t want to. Everyone wants a present.