Januariad

Jason retrieves his hand from the depths of a toffee muffin and extends one blunt finger towards the monkeys in front of him. Slowly and methodically he takes each screeching animal by the tail and drags it into the barrel at the bottom of the screen. His smooth, white brow furrows with consternation each time a monkey escapes, but his speed is unaffected. He moves steadily, never showing panic.

His parents hover around the edge of the scene like occasionally intrusive stage decoration. His mother in particular trespasses, reaching out and catching his wrist before rubbing its gooey hand clean with a napkin. Even so, the screen is well-streaked with brown smears and treacly clods of crumbs.

Jason retrieves his hand from the depths of a toffee muffin and extends one blunt finger towards the monkeys in front of him. Slowly and methodically he takes each screeching animal by the tail and drags it into the barrel at the bottom of the screen. His smooth, white brow furrows with consternation each time a monkey escapes, but his speed is unaffected. He moves steadily, never showing panic.

His parents hover around the edge of the scene like occasionally intrusive stage decoration. His mother in particular trespasses, reaching out and catching his wrist before rubbing its gooey hand clean with a napkin. Even so, the screen is well-streaked with brown smears and treacly clods of crumbs.

Jason’s fist goes back into the muffin for another rough handful, and the monkeys run amok as he carefully folds the mass between his soft, white lips. He chews the sticky mouthful as slowly and deliberately as he snared zoo escapees a moment earlier, taking this opportunity to peer into the outer world. He is throned on a high-seat at a Victorian ironwork table tucked into the corner of a gravelled courtyard. The tablet is propped at sixty degrees in front of him, screeching mutedly. His mother and father and their masses of winter clothing occupy the remaining space around the table. They drink coffee and pick distractedly at their own treats. Above the high stone walls of the yard, Jason can see the black limbs of sleeping trees and one lonely green Scots pine. The sky is January blue, slashed with thin, dark clouds. The air is very still. Nothing moves. Jason swallows down the glutinous lump and returns, unhurriedly, to the screaming monkeys.