He awoke Christmas morning to find a tin of biscuits at his front door.
Not wrapped, just sitting there with the image of a kookaburra displayed on the top.
Christmas was like every other day in his word only quieter. It was a weird quiet, no cars, no sounds as if the world had decided to sleep in and didn’t want to be disturbed, at least until morning teatime.
There were no children in his neighbourhood and so no childish excitement was ever heard.
He wondered who might leave him a tin of biscuits? After all, he didn’t have any great circle of friends, in fact, he didn’t have any friends.
Inspecting the tin, he found it was of the old-fashioned kind, made from tin, not plastic like he had seen in the shops of late. It had a seal around it, the kookaburra on top looked cheerful, and when he rattled the tin, he could hear the packed biscuits inside jostle with each other in their confined space.
The other mysterious aspect of receiving the tin of biscuits was he loved biscuits. He was a great biscuit eater, and he wondered who knew this. Though he concluded anyone who followed him on his weekly shop would observe he always bought several packets of shortbread biscuits, which he dunked in his tea each morning.
The writing on the tin said the contents were shortbreads and so it puzzled him further that someone had been so observant.
He decided he couldn’t leave them on his doorstep and so gathered them up and took them inside.
He placed them on his kitchen table and flicked on the kettle, inside he felt a small glow of appreciation, someone had thought of him, and he couldn’t help but feel flattered by the gesture.