I celebrate Christmas with wilful glee.

Host: The first snow of December fell like ash from a gentle fire, quietly blanketing the streets in a white, trembling peace. The town was lit like a theatre set — strings of lights hung from balconies, shop windows glowed with wreaths, and the air was thick with the smell of cinnamon, pine, and rain-soaked stone.

Inside a small café, fogged by steam and laughter, Jack and Jeeny sat by the window, watching as a group of children ran across the square, their boots kicking up snow. On the table, two mugs of coffee steamed, and between them, a folded newspaper with a headline about holiday sales and energy crises.

Jeeny, smiling, read aloud from a column, her voice soft but sparkling:
“‘I celebrate Christmas with wilful glee.’ — Robert Rinder.”

Host: Jack’s eyebrow lifted, his grey eyes glinting with dry amusement.

Jack: “Wilful glee, huh? That’s an interesting phrase. Like joy with a purpose. Almost... rebellious.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe that’s the point. To choose joy, even when the world feels too heavy for it.”

Jack: “Or to hide behind it. People get drunk on festivity so they don’t have to face what’s broken. The lights, the songs, the gifts — it’s all a distraction.”

Jeeny: “You always find the shadow in the light, don’t you?”

Jack: “Someone has to. Otherwise we all just pretend the darkness isn’t there.”

Host: The steam from the cups curled upward, catching the light like small, ghostly flames. Outside, a street violinist played “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” and the melody drifted in through the glass, fragile as a memory.

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s what makes it beautiful, Jack. That we celebrate in spite of the darkness, not because we ignore it. Willful glee — it’s not naivety; it’s defiance.”

Jack: “Defiance? You think stringing up tinsel is revolutionary now?”

Jeeny: “Yes. In a world that’s tired, angry, and cynical, joy is radical. You call it tinsel; I call it hope.”

Host: Jack chuckled, a low, rough sound, but his eyes softened, as if the idea had struck something true in him.

Jack: “You’re saying joy is an act of resistance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Think about it — Robert Rinder is Jewish, yet he says he celebrates Christmas with wilful glee. It’s not about religion, it’s about connection, about embracing the season’s light because it belongs to all of us. Even those who don’t share its faith can share its kindness.”

Jack: “Or it’s just commercial madness dressed up as tradition. People buy, waste, post, and pose. Then in January, they’re broke and empty again.”

Jeeny: “And yet, for a few days, they smile more, they visit their parents, they forgive, they remember what giving feels like. Isn’t that something?”

Host: A pause settled between them — the kind that happens when two truths collide, neither winning, both necessary. The light outside brightened as the sun broke through a passing cloud, spilling into the café like a benediction.

Jack: “Maybe it’s just... manufactured glee. Willful because we force it. We pretend to be happy, to fit in, to not feel so alone.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that human, Jack? To pretend until it’s real? We’ve been doing that since the beginning — painting caves, writing poems, lighting fires. We fake the light until the light returns.”

Host: The words hung in the air, shimmering like snow caught in sunlight. Jack looked at her, his expression softening, his fingers drumming lightly against his cup.

Jack: “You make it sound holy, this holiday of pretenders.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe faith itself is just that — a willful act of hope, even when logic tells you it’s foolish.”

Jack: “And you think Rinder means that?”

Jeeny: “I think he’s laughing, but also confessing. He knows it’s ridiculous — the jumpers, the turkey, the films we’ve all seen a hundred times. But he also knows that joy, even absurd joy, can be pure. Sometimes, we have to celebrate with glee simply because we’re alive.”

Host: The music outside changed — now a brass band, off-key but passionate, marched by the square, trumpets and drums echoing against the stone. The noise filled the café, lifting the mood.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my mother used to wake me at dawn on Christmas to open the curtains. She’d say, ‘Look, Jack, the light’s back.’ I used to roll my eyes, but... I get it now.”

Jeeny: “What do you get?”

Jack: “That maybe glee isn’t ignorance. It’s gratitude. It’s a way of saying thank you that we made it through another year.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes shone, her smile quiet, not of victory, but of recognition.

Jeeny: “Then you do celebrate, Jack. You just forgot to call it that.”

Jack: “Maybe I do. Maybe I’ve been too busy finding the cracks to notice the light that comes through them.”

Host: The wind shook the door, a few snowflakes swirling inside as a customer entered with a burst of cold. The bells above the door jingled, delicate, silver, sweet.

Jeeny: “So, will you celebrate this year, with a little wilful glee?”

Jack: smiling “Maybe I’ll try. But I’m not wearing the reindeer jumper.”

Jeeny: “Deal. You can just smile — that’ll be your miracle.”

Host: They laughed, their voices blending with the music and the rattle of cups, the moment soft, bright, and brief, like light on snow.

Outside, the square shimmered in gold, the sky a pale silver, and the world — for a fleeting moment — felt whole.

Host: The quote still rested on the table, its words simple, yet radiant, as if lit from within:

“I celebrate Christmas with wilful glee.”

Host: And in that tiny, ordinary, extraordinary moment, they both understood: willful glee was not denial, but courage — the choice to rejoice, even when the world gives you every reason not to.