Fyse’s Floating Face Contains much that is apocryphal, or at least wildly innacurate…

Christmas Dinner No. 4

Undisputed head chef, yet loathe to delegate, my mother is crouched on the kitchen floor, frantically rearranging oven shelves in an attempt to find room for both turkey and potatoes. Atop the stove, each ring is occupied by a merrily bubbling pot, filling the air with steam and tantalising smells. My brother stands nearby, knife in hand as he carefully trims and butters a slice of bread, moves to add it to the nearby plate, then changes his mind and eats it instead. On the kitchen table stands an apparently inexhaustible pile of brussel sprouts, before which sits my sister, peeling and trimming as if her life depended on it. Straightening from the oven, my mother flicks a concerned glance from the sprouts to the clock before busying herself with a bag of parsnips.

Through the open door floats the sound of banging and the occasional muttered oath. My father is wrestling a reluctant table flap into place, eventually succeeding and opening a chest of drawers to unearth a holly-patterned table cloth. He pauses to survey his handywork. I enter with hands full of cutlery, before returning a minute later clutching wine glasses. Soon the table is fully laid, the festive scene illuminated by watery winter light from the large dining room window.

Outside, the sun shines sporadically through cloud, casting pools of light that rush across the valley and up the opposite headland. The town of Dartmouth is quiet and seemingly relaxed. The river is empty except for a lone craft puttering slowly past, no cars move on the winding roads and the silence is broken only by an occasional seagull, calling loudly as it swoops low over the rooftops. Day wanes and the windows of the town wink into light, casting shimmering reflections that grow more pronounced as darkness falls completely. Back in the kitchen, the oven timer sounds with a harsh tone and the turkey emerges once more from the oven.

This Christmas Dinner, I grossly over-indulged on...

• Smoked salmon with buttered bread, lemon and black pepper
• Roast turkey with roast potatoes, roast parsnips, brussel sprouts with toasted almonds, cranberry sauce, pigs in blankets, gravy, stuffing and bread sauce
• Christmas pudding with brandy sauce, brandy butter and marzipan balls

Probably the best Christmas Dinner I've ever had, with each item cooked to perfection by my Mum. The rest of us strived to do all the chopping, peeling and stirring without getting in the way, leaving her as artistic director of operations, doing all the skillful bits. The food was accompanied by large quantities of alcohol, and left us all sprawled and sated in armchairs and sofas. Right now I feel I may never eat again, but perhaps I'll have worked up an appetite by next year...

The death knell of nobility…

Seated on a bench waiting for an old school friend, I hummed quietly (and slightly dementedly) to myself. Situated by a junction in the centre of town, cars swished by as I eyed a sweeper truck crawling along the curb toward me. Peering over the dashboard, the driver guided his furiously spinning brushes through the gutter as litter of every genre was hoovered from sight. If ever there was a calling both noble and pure, it is that of the municipal street sanitiser. Entirely unsung, through the filth and grime of the world he pilots his sturdy craft, a wake of gleaming tarmac testament to his tireless industry. A proud tear welling in my eye, I watched his steed battle bravely past.

But my 'joie de vivre' was short lived. Imagine my audible gasp when, rounding the next corner, a hand protruded from yonder truck window and released a crisp packet from its hairy-knuckled grasp. Fluttering to the ground, it became on contact what can only be described as litter. Oh, what had I witnessed? Such wanton destruction of tarmac's virgin purity! Panicked, I racked my reeling brain for a just and noble motivation.

A bold political statement, perhaps, or an act of heroic protest against 'The Man'? Clearly it was designed to highlight the plight of the working class, or maintain the perpetual grubbiness of streets to safeguard jobs for future generations of sweepers. Though momentarily buoyed by this notion, I soon realised that an almost complete absence of placard-wielding protesters ruled out a political cause. Perhaps it was 'Art'? I craned round, half expecting to spy a small group of aficionados, deep in meditative contemplation. But no.

A wise man once said, "When you remove the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth". Thus was I left with the uncomfortable conclusion that our paragon of all that is street-sweeperish was not what he seemed. Perhaps he was a machiavellian genius bent on council district domination, or maybe his brain cell hadn't grasped the subtle purpose of his job. Either way, he was not the driven idealist of my imagination. Another fragile dream falls, crushed and bloodied by the wayside.

Later that evening, eyes burning with salty tears, I ripped 'Street Sweeping Heroes 2005' from my bedroom wall and cast it into the fire. Unable to look away, I watched as Mr December was hungrily consumed, the orange flames licking across his jacket of fetching fluorescent yellow. Once a potent symbol of hope in adversity, such yellow shall remain to me forever tainted, redolent of betrayal and deceit. Shaking both with grief and fury, I turned from the hearth, my jaw set in grim determination. So began my search for a new form of spirituality, one free from the strictures of that accursed colour. Early research suggests the Dalai Lama prefers red of a cheery autumnal hue...