Blow, blow, blow. Too hot. Tentative sip. Liquid velvet coating the palate. Instant dopamine. Wait. Naw. Not sweet enough. Too much like traditional hot cocoa. Too bitter. The milk is right. Silky, leaving a delectable coating all over the insides of the mouth but just not sweet enough. Something is missing. You shouldn’t have to add sugar to hot chocolate.  Three pounds and fifty pence right down the drain. Sigh.

No need to blow this time. Perfect temperature to dive right in. Drink with confidence. Drink like this one is the one. Gag. Choke. Oh god it burns. Who the hell puts chilli powder in hot chocolate?  Throw it in the bin, disgusted. Dejected. Another waste of money.

Feeling a bit sick from all the hot chocolate, she decided to take a seat and try to recover. Too much sugar, too much milk, too much everything. Or too little everything. Either way nothing was right. Hot chocolate should be enjoyed in its purest form. Almost unbearably sweet with a velvety smooth texture. It should taste like the most luxurious hug in the world. She must have tried every single hot chocolate at the market. She hated it here. Too much noise, too many smells, too many people. Children crying out for something more. Another churro, another ride on the carousel. Always more, more, more. And they weren’t quiet about it. The screams of but muuuuum ah waaaaaant it would haunt her nightmares until February at least. Every time she heard one of the spoiled wee shites crying out for more she’d always mutter her mother’s favourite phrase ah want ah want disnae git under her breath. Never loud enough for anyone to hear it but loud enough that she knew she’d said it. Everyone told her she sounded more and more like her mum every day.

The gaudy music of the carousel added to the horrific cacophony of the Christmas market. The same songs belting out on tinny speakers. Nothing had changed since she was a wee lassie. Yes the weather outside was still frightful, this was Glasgow afterall. Yes the Sleigh Bells Ring and I am listening. It’s impossible to avoid them since there’s a Santa on every corner. Why yes indeed it will be Lonely this Christmas without you to hold, thanks for the reminder you demonic hobby-horses. No I will not be Rocking Around the Christmas Tree and I absolutely will not be having a Merry Little Christmas. Whoever said Christmas was the Most Wonderful Time of the Year must have been absolutely off their rocker.

The flashing neon signs were far too garish. Blue flash yellow flash flash green flash blue flash yellow flash flash green. Migraine city, population: her. She closed her eyes but a dim flickering of light was still visible from behind her eyelids. Plus if she closed her eyes everything just got louder. She could hear the crisp electric fizzle of the neon signs. Could hear 1000 different voices all around her. The wails of the children, the God-awful music, the laughter which was the worst sound of all, all building up to a hellish crescendo. Her ears started to ring. She started to vibrate, chest tightening. Deep breaths. Long inhale. Long exhale. Count backwards from 100. Don’t you dare cry. There is no sight more pathetic than a grown woman having a panic attack at a Christmas market. Grin and bear it. Have a Holly Jolly Christmas. Smile. Dinnae greet, dinnae greet, dinnae greet. ‘Tis the season to be jolly.

If the definition of insanity really was doing the exact same thing over and over again and expecting a different result then she was mad as a hatter. Every single year she tried to find the perfect hot chocolate. The one she remembered enjoying as a wee lassie. Her mum would take her to the big Christmas market at George Square every year on Christmas Eve. They didn’t have much but she always saved up enough to get them both a hot chocolate and she would get a ride on the carousel. They loved to look at the big tree and all the lights together. She learned the hard way that drinking the hot chocolate before the carousel was a terrible idea. But that was ok because her mum would wipe her mouth and wrap her up in a big hug and the year after she would go on the carousel and then drink that heavenly nectar.

Hot chocolate should taste like the safety of her mother’s arms. It should taste like her smiling and waving as she went round and round on the carousel. It should taste like hame. It should taste like the magic of Christmas all condensed into one wee styrofoam cup. It shouldn’t taste like the salty, bitter tears of a scared wee lassie. It shouldn’t taste of Christmas spent in a hospital ward watching the lights slowly fade. Cheerful cups of hot chocolate replaced by unpalatable liquid supplements that she had to beg her to drink. “Please mum, you need tae keep yer strength up.” The cheerful tinsel around the tree replaced by a hundred different wires. Some on little silicone pads, others protruding out of her tiny arms. Christmas baubles replaced by blue, purple, yellowish bruises all over her tracing paper skin.

She came here every year without fail. Always on Christmas Eve. Always looking for that perfect hot chocolate. Never finding it. Always ending up sitting on a bench trying not to cry. God she missed her so much. Stupidly she believed that if she could just find that perfect drink then she might feel close to her again, just for a moment. Nothing would bring her back but if she could just close her eyes and drink that magical, soothing hot chocolate then maybe she could just pretend she was still here. She could hear exactly what she would say if she was, right noo, git up. Stop yer greetin, yer makin a scene. C’moan, we’ll get a wee hot chocolate and git the bus hame. Santa’ll be here soon. What she wouldn’t give to be young enough that a hot chocolate could fix everything. Have her mum wipe away her tears, wrap her up in a big hug and go hame. She never met her as a grown woman.

She’d calmed down enough to stand up and walk out of the market. She’d been torturing herself for fourteen years, maybe it was time to make peace with Christmas. Maybe she’d even get a wee tree. She’d have hated to see her like this. She hated to see herself like this. She’d been a Scrooge ever since she passed. She loved Christmas, loved the life of it all. The family meals, the trips to the market, the joy on loved ones’ faces. She’d have hated to see her like this. She’d spent fourteen years filled with anger and hatred and grief. It had festered away like an infected wound. Hating Christmas wouldn’t bring her back. A stupid cup of hot chocolate wouldn’t bring her back either.

On her way to the exit she saw the smallest stand in the entire market. It looked ancient, all grubby and worn down. Practically invisible, tucked right behind the Portaloos. The Christmas decorations strapped to the roof hadn’t changed since the early nineties and it showed. The whole thing looked like a mobile health and safety violation. What the hell. “One hot chocolate please.” She slid the two pounds over the counter and took the styrofoam cup. A thin layer of milk-scum covered the top. Like a little skin blister. She took a deep breath, gently blew onto the liquid to cool it. She didn’t have a lot of confidence. It looked too watery, just like the instant powder mix she had at home. She took a sip, holding the sweet liquid in her mouth for a moment. It was artificially sweet, so saccharine she could practically feel a cavity coming. The watery appearance of the beveridge was deceptive. It had a milky rich texture, enveloping her mouth perfectly not in velvet but in velour. It was exquisitely synthetic. It tasted like 1998 in a cup. It tasted like her mum had just nipped to the loo and she was patiently waiting on her coming back. It tasted like Christmas. O’ what a blessed Christmas miracle! The stuff of films really. Like in Elf when they all start chanting “I believe” This was it. Her big “I believe” moment.  “S’cuse me sorry, how’d ye make this,” she asked, welling up.

“Wit?” asked the white-bearded, scruffy old man behind the counter.

“The hot chocolate, how’d ye make it?”

“Asda’s ain brand, five scoops. Full fat milk.”

“Wit? Asda’s wit?” She couldn’t believe her ears. She had this shite at home crammed right up the back of one of her cupboards. She’d got it in a hamper years ago. It was probably out of date.

The old man winked. “Asda’s ain brand hen, aboot a pound a tub. Nuhin special.” She walked away sipping her hot chocolate. “See you next year,” she smiles and for good measure throws in a “Merry Christmas when it comes” to the old man.

“You anaw hen, you anaw.”