It was Christmas just gone. My family and I were out for a festive meal at a cosy little pub—one of those old, timber-beamed places that somehow always smell of gravy and good memories. The food was spot on, the atmosphere even better, and all was well in the world.
At some point, nature called—as it always does after a pint and too many pigs in blankets—so off I toddled to the gents. As I stood there mid-flow, the sound of a Christmas carol drifted in through the pub’s speakers. I can’t even remember which one it was at first, just that it had that familiar festive cheer.
And then, as if from nowhere, an older gentleman walked in beside me and—without hesitation—started singing along. Properly singing, too. No shy mumbling or awkward humming. Just full-on, unapologetic Christmas spirit, right there in the toilets.
Now, I’m not usually one for public performances while… otherwise engaged. But something about the moment felt right. As he neared the end of the song, I couldn’t help myself. I joined in for the grand finale, belting out the last line:
“And a partridge in a pear tree!”
We both chuckled, zipped up, and carried on with our evenings. No introductions. No awkwardness. Just a brief, brilliant moment of festive silliness between two strangers who happened to share a loo and a love of carols.
It wasn’t life-changing. But it reminded me that joy can be found in the weirdest places—even mid-wee. And honestly, what’s more Christmassy than that?
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