26 December 2026
Saturday. Boxing Day, and I have been sorting presents.
From U., an oven thermometer. I do not need an oven thermometer. I can tell the temperature of an oven by standing near it and closing my eyes. I have hung it on the locker door, where he will see it and know I am grateful, and where I will not, so I am not insulted.
From the man on the intercom, a card that says “Have a FUN Christmas!” in lilac ink. I have put it face down.
The best present of the season, however, was not mine. Three of this week’s guests had been given their seats as gifts, wrapped up in a card under somebody’s tree. One of them told the gamesmaster it was the most thoughtful present she had ever received. I agree. A dinner invitation is the highest compliment one person can pay another.
A note for anybody buying such a gift: my table is strictly for grown-ups, eighteen and over, and the gamesmasters do check. Do not wrap a seat for a nephew. Wrap him a jumper.
— B., your host
