The Bird of Christmas
Christmas Day. It went pretty well. A morning of Secret Santa felt in balance: just one present to focus on giving, and the mystery of not knowing where one's own had come from.
But I felt disturbed. I realised today just how disgusted I have become by meat-eating... the sight, the smell, the thought of the wasted life and the whole sensationalised discussion of its devouring. It gives me nausea just reflecting on it. It was not a particularly meaty affair, by most standards. Just one bird: a duck, as it happens. But the hot fumes of its fat, and the grotesque manner in which its poor skin was peeled and sawed away... and then the shared delight of its delicacy! It seems so strange and twisted to me. Far from cheery goodwill, I felt sad and repulsed, and had to step out for air. It's nearly twenty years since I stopped eating meat. When I was fourteen, I decided that I didn't want it any more. My mother thought it was just "a phase". For years now, I have rarely dined with non- vegetarians. Sometimes I am surprised to think just how many people still eat meat. So what to do with the irony of Christmas?: the time to get together and be connected with family, yet a time when my values collide head- on with convention. Bah, who needs convention?
