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It was always a showstopper at Christmas, the familiar smell of spice would fill your nostrils as soon as you walked in and you’d simply stop to breathe it in.
He’d intended to skip it this year, take his sorry ass elsewhere and slip away from the mass family gathering. No-one gave him credit as a writer, and his siblings were all successful businessmen, so there was always a scene.
Or at least that was his plan. But here he was, sitting on the train, his seat sticky with something he’d rather not think about, staring out of the window at the earthy scenery. Old habits die hard, but Gram did make the best mince pies ever, and it was only one day a year.