Bloody Christmas, here again, let us raise a loving cup, peace on

Host: The evening sky over the suburbs was streaked with orange haze, the last light of a winter sunset melting into the cold air. Inside a small kitchen, strings of cheap tinsel hung crookedly, a radio hummed faintly with an old Bing Crosby song, and the smell of roast potatoes lingered like an uninvited guest.

The table was cluttered with empty wine glasses, wrinkled napkins, and the wreckage of another Christmas dinner. Jack sat slouched in his chair, sleeves rolled up, a small cut on his hand from wrestling with the turkey carving knife. Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on the counter, her hair tied loosely, a faint trace of gravy on her cheek.

It was Christmas night, but neither looked particularly merry.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… every year it’s the same. Chaos, mess, arguments over who gets the last roast potato — and then, somehow, everyone pretends it’s all about peace on earth.”

Jack: “Yeah. Bloody Christmas, here again. Wendy Cope had it right. We toast to goodwill, then fight over who’s doing the washing up.”

Host: Jack’s voice was half laughter, half exhaustion. He swirled the last drop of wine in his glass, watching it cling to the sides like a slow spiral of time.

Jeeny: “You sound like you hate it.”

Jack: “Not hate, exactly. Just… I don’t buy into the charade anymore. We talk about love and forgiveness, then spend the day performing it. Christmas feels like a stage play — everyone acting out happiness they don’t feel.”

Jeeny: “That’s harsh, even for you. Maybe it’s not about pretending. Maybe it’s about trying. Even if it’s a performance, at least it’s one that brings people together.”

Host: A draft slipped through the window, flickering the candle flame beside them. The shadow of a half-eaten cake stretched across the counter like an unspoken thought.

Jack: “Together? Half the families in this country are sitting around tables, biting their tongues and thinking about politics, debts, and divorces. But sure — we’ll sing Silent Night and pretend everything’s fine.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the beauty of it — the pretense itself. You think peace has to be pure to be real? Sometimes it’s fragile, temporary, even false — but it’s still a kind of grace.”

Jack: “Grace? You mean denial with better lighting.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes flashed — a spark of heat beneath the gentle tone.

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I mean hope. Every ritual, every toast, every forced smile — it’s our way of saying: we still believe in something better. Even if we have to fake it for one night.”

Jack: “So we lie for the sake of the season? We hide our resentment behind glitter paper?”

Jeeny: “We survive it behind glitter paper. That’s different.”

Host: Jack ran a hand through his hair, staring at the sink overflowing with plates. The clink of a spoon rolling off the table filled the silence.

Jack: “You know what I think? Christmas isn’t about goodwill or peace. It’s about obligation. Buy this, visit them, pretend to care. We’ve turned meaning into merchandise.”

Jeeny: “And yet, here you are — eating the pudding, wearing the stupid paper crown. Why?”

Jack: “Because it’s expected. Tradition. The annual ritual of pretending to be cheerful while the world’s still burning.”

Jeeny: “So it’s not the ritual that’s hollow, it’s the heart you bring to it.”

Host: The words hit like a soft but steady thud — the kind that doesn’t break, but settles deeply. Jack looked up, his expression unreadable.

Jack: “You think if I just smiled harder, the world would fix itself?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe your little corner of it might. That’s all Christmas really asks — that we make one small space of peace, however temporary. Even if it ends with the washing up.”

Host: The tension between them began to shift — from argument to something closer to reflection. The radio changed songs, a slow jazz carol, soft as snowfall.

Jack: “You always see meaning in the mess, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Because that’s where it lives. In the mess. Look at us — dishes piled, food gone cold — and yet there’s something here. Some small miracle in the fact that we’re still talking instead of shouting.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s your version of peace.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only one that’s real.”

Host: Jack stood, walking to the sink. He stared at the mountain of plates, then at Jeeny, who was still watching him, a faint smile playing at her lips.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? When I was a kid, I used to think the ‘goodwill to men’ part was literal. Like everyone, for one night, actually liked each other. Now I know it just means — try not to break anything before dessert.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s wisdom, not cynicism. Maybe goodwill is just the effort not to break things — or people — even for a day.”

Host: Jack turned on the tap, the sound of running water filling the air like a small, cleansing rain. The steam rose, blurring his reflection in the window.

Jack: “So, peace on earth, goodwill to men… and do the washing up?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the real miracle — not the angels or the stars, but the man who decides to wash the plates instead of walking away.”

Host: A soft laugh escaped him, the first genuine one all evening.

Jack: “You’re impossible.”

Jeeny: “And you’re predictable.”

Host: The rhythm of their banter slowed, fading into something warm, almost tender. Jack passed her a tea towel. She took it without a word.

They worked in silence, the kind that isn’t empty but familiar. Outside, a few fireworks cracked faintly against the night, red and gold reflections dancing across the windowpane.

Jeeny: “You see? There it is.”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “Peace on earth.”

Host: Jack looked at her — the faint light glinting off her eyes, the soft hum of the world outside — and for the first time that night, he didn’t argue. He simply nodded.

Host: The camera would linger on the two of them — side by side, hands moving through the soap and water, laughter somewhere between them — while the world outside kept spinning, broken and beautiful as ever.

Because maybe, as Wendy Cope knew, peace on earth doesn’t arrive in cathedrals or carols. Maybe it begins right there — in a small kitchen, on a cold Christmas night, with two tired souls doing the washing up together.