The Perfect Christmas Lunch #1

Christmas lunch was perfect. The six housemates sat at the table and surveyed the delights spread before them, sparing a considerate thought for the two absentees.

L. had gone home, as she did every weekend, to enjoy mother-cooked food and a boyfriend. E. was stuck at a till in tescos, only just having recovered from the staff party the night before.

They were about an hour behind schedule, but finally they were sat down on the uncomfortable office chairs that the house came furnished with, and the turkey sat on the sideboard, half inexpertly carved using a pair of slightly blunt bread-knives.

No two plates were the same. No two sets of cutlery were even the same, and although the semester had begun with over 10 wine glasses in the house, there were now only two, and the rest of the housemates sat drinking their Jacob's Creek out of assorted tumblers.

There was little ceremony as they all tucked eagerly into what they had pulled together so perfectly to produce, and there was much merry banter as they squabbled over the gravy. The roast potatoes were browned and crisped exactly as any of them might desire, and the carrots and parsnips were agreed to be just right. There was a general consensus that substituting peas for brussel sprouts had been a true stroke of genius, and the instant gravy was decided to be quite adequate. D. had bought some beef stock with which to make gravy, but everybody had quietly been far too squeamish to go anywhere near the giblets that had been plucked at arms length from out of the turkey in order to make something authentic enough that it needed to be sieved.

The turkey had been named Terrence by both M. and C., and J's mother had mailed them a voucher for some money off the bird to help pay for it. It had sat in the downstairs shower for a day and a half defrosting, and although the details of the cooking procedure had been highly speculative, a phone call to C's mum had proved reassuring confirmation of what they had already been doing. D's experience in the fast-food industry had proved almost indispensable, although J. felt that her time in the sink of her local bar had failed to appropriately prepare her for the solo experience. M. maintained his status and reputation as house Domestic Goddess.

The juices ran clear, and the meal was declared a success, with more than enough turkey leftover for E. to be able to return to turkey sandwiches come that evening. There were two chocolate yule logs awaiting them in the now far emptier fridge, and more than enough alcohol to be carrying on with. L. was generally in charge of the alcohol, on the basis that he poured the most generous drinks, but no one was really worrying about this at this point, preoccupied as they all were with the glorious stuffing and wonderful chipolatas.

The one-pound bargain fairy lights twinkled cosily in the window, highlighting perfectly the array of paper snowflakes selotaped to the glass. It might have started to rain quietly outside, but the happy housemates were too busy eating to notice. The newspaper paper-chains of irregular thickness hung embracing above the scene, and it was the perfect Christmas lunch.