I had to look forward to at least three Christmas parties, which I was being forced to attend, battling to get Christmas presents, crowds, wrapping, extending my Visa credit, “Jingle Bells”, queuing in the post office for four hours, marking Christmas tests and Wham’s bloody “Last Christmas” on the radio every five minutes, culminating with Christmas Day spent with my parents fighting over the remote. At least Noel was coming home. The rest of it was almost worth it. I was wrapping presents when the phone rang. “Hello?” “Emma, crackle, crackle …” “Hello?” Crackle, crackle … I shook the phone, something I always did when I had a bad line. It never helped, but it felt like I was doing something. “Emma, crackle, crackle. It’s me, Noel.” “Noel, is that you?” Crackle, buzz, crackle. “The line is really crackle, crackle, crackle …” “Noel, oh my God! Where are you calling from? It’s so good to hear your voice!” Buzz. “Damn this line.” “Goa buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.”
