Finding myself alone in the kitchen I realised Jess wasn't down yet. He was too old for me to call him.

I went back out to the bird table — it was actually a sparkling day, with cold you could smell and a gift of a blue sky — and tightened the angle on the skirt of chicken wire we thought might deter squirrels running up the pole.

Why, Hen? What's the reason? Or do I mean cause? What's caused it? But that didn't seem the right way to think about it. Too logical. Let's just imagine there was a prompt. Men get these promptings. They never thought of leaving, she didn't do anything in particular, but suddenly there was someone else. Prompts were cruel. They could come from anywhere.

Jess appeared, in his pyjamas, squinting through the glass doors to the garden. I pretended not to see him, and turned my attention to some weeds still damnably flourishing in December. "Mum!" He finally made the effort to slide the door back a fraction. "Haven't you noticed it's winter?"

There's quite a lot I'd like you to notice, Jess. That it's Christmas Eve for a start. And already 10.30. We were none of us particularly early risers in our family, but whatever time we made an appearance, Jess always came last. As if he were delaying his entry into the adult world for as long as possible. That was, until his hunger got the better of him.

"Is there anything to eat?"

"Toast, cereal, whatever..." I'd learnt to sound more casual than I felt.

"But it's Christmas!"

I didn't like him in his selfishness and his lethargy. I left him to it.

"Where's Cardy?" he yelled after me.

"Gone to Linzy's." The early bird gets the worm, I told the mirror in the bathroom. When I saw I looked as grim as Cardy I closed my eyes and sat on the unmade bed, but no tears came, so I sighed, banged the duvets, pulled the covers straight, threw the pillows to the right end, and in my exertion got...not a reason...not a cause...but a prompt for going out. I'd buy a Christmas tree.

They had them on the corner by the supermarket, hugely overpriced. You'll think me a Scrooge but have you got one with a few broken branches, I practised asking. I could splint and bind the broken branches, no one would notice, they'd last the holiday and I'd be proud of not being ripped off. You're a skinflint, said Jess. Mean, said Cardy. We don't need to cut these corners so tight, I don't know why you...began Hen. Sorry but not sorry. It's how I grew up. It's who I am. Take it or leave it. Well, not...I don't know.

"Can I help you carry that beauty, Mrs Ries?" It was Stelios, my neighbour. I was somehow proud of having a neighbour, in London.