Traditionally, Harold Bitterman hated Christmas: the stress, the fuss, the holly and the ivy; the last minute rushing around. But, this year, at precisely that last minute, he had somehow managed to procure for himself a pleasingly plump old goose. That such a fine specimen had been left on the shelf had him scratching his head in wonder. Oh, how his mouth watered at the thought of crisping up that skin with the blowtorch he kept handy (a trick he'd picked up from that chef on the telly) before slicing off a nice bit of breast; or plunging his carving knife deep into the tender flesh, cutting through bone and sinew to take off a meaty leg. So infused with the festive spirit was he at the thought that he had taken to playing Christmas carols. The jingling bells and angelic voices lifted his spirit still further.
But first he must truss the old bird and take out the innards; baste her and roast her till the juices run clear. The preparation alone would help him work up a healthy appetite.
And as far as Christmas dinner was concerned, he'd probably make do with a sandwich, or whatever he could find in the fridge.