My favourite time of year is two weeks before Christmas when

Host: The city glimmered under early December lights, the air thick with the hum of anticipation. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the glow of streetlamps, dissolving on the pavement like fleeting promises. The windows of cafés and pubs shone warm and golden against the cold, each one holding laughter, music, and the small electric pulse of people remembering how to celebrate.

Inside one such café — a little place tucked on a corner of an old brick street — the sound of a jazz trio mingled with the clinking of glasses. The fireplace burned steadily, throwing soft light across garlands and mistletoe strung from the ceiling beams.

Jack sat at a small round table, his coat unbuttoned, a faint steam rising from his cup. Jeeny sat across from him, her cheeks flushed from the cold, a Cosmopolitan in hand that caught the light like a jewel.

Between them, the table was cluttered with half-eaten pastries, folded napkins, and the remnants of an afternoon that had stretched happily into evening.

Jeeny: Smiling, raising her glass. “You know what Anne Reid said once? ‘My favourite time of year is two weeks before Christmas when everybody’s up for it — you’re having lunches with people, drinking Cosmopolitans, and getting ready for something exciting!’ I think she was right. There’s something magical about this in-between time — when the world hasn’t yet paused, but it’s already glowing with possibility.”

Jack: Half-smiling, stirring his coffee. “Magical, huh? Feels more like organized chaos to me. Crowds, obligations, endless shopping lists disguised as joy.”

Jeeny: Laughs softly. “You’re impossible. You see chaos — I see momentum. Everyone moving toward something bright, even if they don’t know what it is yet. Don’t you feel it? That collective heartbeat?”

Jack: “I feel exhaustion wrapped in tinsel.”

Host: The firelight flickered across his face, softening his usual cynicism, revealing a trace of wistfulness beneath. The café around them pulsed with conversation — strangers laughing like old friends, the clatter of plates a kind of cheerful percussion.

Jeeny: “That’s just it, though. People let themselves feel again this time of year. Even cynics like you end up smiling at strangers.”

Jack: Raises an eyebrow. “Name one stranger I’ve smiled at.”

Jeeny: Without hesitation. “The barista when she gave you extra whipped cream.”

Jack: Deadpan. “That wasn’t a smile. That was caffeine-induced relief.”

Jeeny: Grinning. “Still counts.”

Host: Outside, the snow thickened. The glass fogged where warmth met winter, turning the café into a snow globe of laughter and light.

Jeeny: “I think Anne was talking about this exact feeling — not the big day, not the gifts, but this suspended moment before it. The world hums differently in December. People remember they have hearts.”

Jack: “Until January hits and reality sends the bill.”

Jeeny: Tilts her head, amused. “You really can’t let yourself have nice feelings, can you?”

Jack: Softly. “I used to. But somewhere between ambition and bills, Christmas turned into an obligation. I miss the wonder.”

Jeeny: “Then reclaim it. Wonder isn’t stolen — it’s forgotten. And right now, look around you. Everyone in this room is holding a little piece of it.”

Host: A group at the bar broke into a carol — slightly off-key, but sung with so much spirit that even Jack couldn’t help but glance over, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jeeny noticed.

Jeeny: “There. That’s it. Proof of life.”

Jack: Smiling reluctantly. “You’re relentless.”

Jeeny: “Hope usually is.”

Host: The band shifted into a slower tune — a warm, jazzy version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” The singer’s voice was low, intimate, filled with that blend of melancholy and magic that only December carries.

Jack: Quietly, after a pause. “You know, maybe you’re right. It’s not Christmas I hate. It’s how people forget the small things the rest of the year. They save kindness like it’s seasonal.”

Jeeny: “That’s why this time is special — it’s proof we still remember how. Even if only for a while.”

Jack: Sips his coffee. “So you think this — the lights, the drinks, the crowded cafés — is humanity’s way of saying sorry for the rest of the year?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s gratitude disguised as glitter. A little ritual to remind ourselves we’re still connected.”

Host: A waiter passed by, placing a new candle on their table. The flame flickered, its light reflected in Jeeny’s drink — red and gold swirling like liquid cheer.

Jeeny: “You know, two weeks before Christmas always feels like a promise. Not about gifts or parties, but about renewal. Like life’s offering one last breath before the year ends.”

Jack: “A breath before the plunge.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The kind that tastes like cinnamon and second chances.”

Host: The snow outside was falling harder now, turning the street into a pale ribbon of silence. People hurried past the window, clutching bags, scarves, each wrapped in their own small story of waiting, hoping, believing.

Jack: After a moment. “When I was a kid, this was my favorite time too. The days before Christmas. The tree would already be up, the lights blinking in the window. That feeling that something extraordinary was about to happen — even if it never quite did.”

Jeeny: “And yet you kept believing it might.”

Jack: Nods, softly. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

Jeeny: “That’s what this season gives back — the right to believe again, even for a moment. In magic. In forgiveness. In yourself.”

Host: Her words lingered like the last note of a song — gentle, certain, enough. The fireplace crackled, the sound like laughter too far away to hear clearly.

Jack looked at her — really looked — and for a rare, unguarded moment, he smiled.

Jack: “Alright, Jeeny. Order another round of those Cosmopolitans. If we’re going to believe in magic, we might as well toast to it.”

Jeeny: Grinning. “See? You’re up for it after all.”

Host: She raised her glass again, the crimson liquid catching the firelight like a promise.

Jeeny: “To the in-between moments — the ones that feel like waiting, but are actually becoming.”

Jack: “And to forgetting how to be cynical, at least until New Year’s.”

Host: Their glasses clinked, a soft, bright sound that melted into the music and laughter around them. The camera would pan slowly outward — through the window, into the falling snow — showing the café as a glowing island of warmth in a world cold but still full of joy.

Because Anne Reid was right —
the days before Christmas aren’t just festive;
they’re alive —
charged with that rare electricity of hope, nostalgia, and connection.

It’s when hearts loosen, laughter lingers,
and for a brief, shimmering moment,
the world remembers how to believe
in something exciting again.