January snow blows in. Rivers freeze. The town is cut off from the outside world. Supplies dwindle, diminish. Soon will come starvation. Soon there will be death.
And still the mince pies sit on the supermarket shelves, prices reduced to 23p for a box of six, unbought, unneeded, unwanted, uneaten.
We would rather eat Easter than finish off Christmas.
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Notes:
1. Written on January 6th, 2026
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