Christmas was around the corner. There I was, 25 and alone in London, many oceans away from home. I was beginning to feel sorry for myself, and resentful as well. There was that air of excitement. People bustled around with armloads of Christmas presents. Why did they have to wave them so gleefully in front of my face? They weren’t, but that is how it felt. I trudged wearily to my unwelcoming bedsit in Queen’s Park, looking into each house that I passed. Beautiful wreaths adorned the doorways, warm lights that looked so inviting, and, frequently, the whiff of baking aroused my senses. Why had I been so outrageously ambitious to make my own way in life? There are times when one needs to be around family, however annoying or unsociable they may be. So I was thrilled to bits when my cousin, the only person I could call family in London, called and asked me to join him for that very special evening. Despite being retired, Fred was a party person and, on this occasion, I would meet Dinesh, a childhood friend of Fred’s. To my interest was the fact that Dinesh was supposedly a good friend of my mother. There was much that was secretive about my mother’s past, and Dinesh might well be the person who could enlighten me. I looked forward to this meeting.

The evening started off well. It was no surprise that Dinesh was already tipsy upon arrival. It was the way these two aging men lived their lives. Dinesh was elegantly dressed; the well-cut clothing adorned his slender figure to fashion model perfection. There was good music, plenty of peanuts on the grill, and lots to wash it down with. Everything had to be done at the right pace, and eventually, it was time to go out. So, one lass and two old crocks decided to do the rounds of the dockside pubs. It was a rollicking time that we had; decidedly a great education for me. Both men drank hard, and I followed suit. Fred’s rule was three pubs at the very least, so the third pub, the best, was reserved as the final stop.

The pub was truly packed. Talking was pointless; the noise of the band obliterated all other sound. People began dancing, and I saw Dinesh swagger across the floor to the other side; he spoke to an African in national dress. I surmised that he wished to drag someone of the opposite sex under the mistletoe. The conversation did not go well and Dinesh returned. Minutes later, Dinesh was heading towards the colourful head dress once again; he was begging for a turn around the floor—and perhaps more. That was when all hell broke loose. Under the flamboyant caftan and colourful head dress was no female; this was alpha male in all his tribal finery. Being accosted for a second time was adding insult to injury. The African was built like a tank and he dealt a blow that sent our little friend flying across the floor towards us. Bedlam broke out and soon the three of us found ourselves thrown out of the pub.

We made our way homewards. Dinesh wanted a vindaloo to soak up the booze and his injured pride. He headed for the Indian whilst Fred and I went home and awaited him in hungry anticipation. Dinesh never arrived, nor did the vindaloo! Hunger eventually overcame us and we had what was available on the menu: cheese toast and mince pies. For me, this was no traditional Christmas, but it certainly has been the most memorable one to date.

Weeks later, Fred called Dinesh. He had been hospitalised that night after being mugged on his way to the Indian. In Dinesh’s words, “I fought like a true champion and gave them karate chops on their balls!”