As I open the freezer for vegetables the familiar tone crackles over the speaker, a xylophone tinkling. I can not help gritting my teeth and slaming the door, cursing loudly. Though it is not the season for my ire: which the death-glaring mother agree’s with as she huff’s and hastens her trolley past; a wide eyed toddler oggling me from his seat.

I glare at her back as what I can only describe as Mariah Carey’s whaling begins. Why every year must this abominable music play? A catchy bop with very little substance. An aggressive jingle. A violent, ear wrenching, sorry excuse for a song.

Cheese. I need cheese. I speed off down the aisle, now wanting out of this hell-hole of a grocery store. Then I see him, grabbing his favourite brand of Gouda, an idiotic, enfuriating expression on his beautific face as he mouths along to the stupid lyrics.

I’v just taken a breath but I can’t feel the oxygen in my lungs. I don’t need cheese. Not anymore. He vanishes as I pick up speed, overtaking the hellish Karen from yonder freezer and heading towards the checkout. I can feel the pang of tears welling up behind my eyes as the chorus hits. ‘I don’t want a lot for Christmas’

I take the shortest line and wait my turn. The woman sidles up and stands behind me, her anger palpable. Her little boy begins grabbing at the Kit Kats and she does nothing to stop him, as though he has a right to fondle the produce.

The man before me bids farewell and merry Christmas to the cashier and I push forward and force a smile.

‘Oh, baby, all I want for Christmas is you’

He is hanging mistletoe on Christmas Eve atop a chair over the arch that seperates the dining and lounge rooms. He teeters while shaking his ass, bright red pants with a series of elves on them. He’s singing off key, trying hard to match Mariah’s vocals but failing miserably. That does not stop him.

I feel something hit my calves. The woman has nudged me with her trolley. I notice the cashier before me, a strange look of concern and confusion.

“Sorry,” I hurriedly begin placing items on the counter feeling the heat flood my cheeks.

“I’m glad some people have all the time in the world”, the woman tsk’s under her breath. I drop the flour onto the counter and turn to face her.

“What did you say?”

Her face is caked with makeup, her angular jaw only so from contouring. A designer bag slung over her shoulder, she’s dressed considerably better than your average shopper. She clutches her pearls as she glares back at me, drawing attention to her ample cleavage. “You heard me” she doubles down.

The crackling speaker hits the final rounds of the song and I see him, just over the woman’s shoulder. ‘All I want for Christmas is you’ begins to sound, several times over, and he belts it out, unabashed. All anger leaves me and I just stare. I can feel a tear release and trickle down my cheek. The woman’s contempt falters, her baby now suckling the unwrapped chocolate bar, but I see neither. I only have eyes for him.

And I can’t help but smile, and mouth along with him to the final line, “all I want for Christmas is you”, before he disappears.