Macaroni Despair

When Jonathan's mother called up the stairs to announce that the macaroni was ready, Jonathan replied that he didn't want any damn macaroni as the damned smell of paint had put him off eating. Jonathan's mother immediately affected shock at his use of colloquial language, somewhat predictably. Come and get your macaroni, she urged, employing the familiar tactic of re-issuing the original instruction, characteristic of her innate stubbornness.
Seven year old Jonathan trudged down the stairs, resigned to his fate of consuming the canned macaroni under these unfavourable conditions. Seated at the dining table were his grandfather and his aunt, his father was out at work. The macaroni was served with slizures of buttered toast, a peculiar sounding combination but most palatable let me assure you.
Hello old boy, his grandfather greeted him ornately. Hi, he whispered shyly. He was a timid boy with oversized lips, unruly curly hair, prone to blushing, biting his lip. Outbursts of raw emotion were typical, be they euphoric or borne of abject misery. His aunt regarded him with a beady fondness he found uncomfortable. He took his place at the table, a wistful expression overcoming his face that could be, and sometimes was, misinterpreted as a scowl. His mother was in the kitchen. His grandfather and aunt had both already eaten in their respective homes before coming out to visit. His aunt was sipping black coffee whilst his grandfather was attending to an iced bun and cup of tea, as he was wont to do.
He could hear the painter in the next room shifting the stepladder around to attend to different areas of the wall. Jonathan nibbled at his macaroni morosely, uncomfortably aware of the presence of his grandfather and aunt observing his every move. He gazed at a radiator on the opposite wall, looking down past his aunt's left arm.
Grandfather fell off his chair with loud abruptness, prompting Jonathan's mother to return from the kitchen to see what all the commotion was. Jonathan's aunt continued to grin in the same fixed way, seemingly not even flinching or otherwise betraying any signal that she had noticed the fall. Her insane fixed grin was suggestive of a comatose lunatic. Jonathan dashed to his mother's aid and, together, they hoisted the poor old blighter to his feet. He cackled ruefully and Jonathan noticed that the crotch of his [his grandfather's] trousers were damp with fresh urine. They set him down in the hardwood ladderback dining chair and Jonathan could sense the friction of the piss-damp trouser material rubbing against the faux leather seat pad. His aunt sipped her coffee. Even when her mouth was obscured by the mug, the same delirious grin was still evident in her eyes. Jonathan took his place at the table opposite her and lifted a fork to cooling macaroni. The quarter slizure of toast had gone cheese sauce-soggy. He asked his mother to bring him a glass of diluting juice, she obliged dutifully. His grandfather muttered non-sequiters to himself, as he was wont to do. His aunt continued to stare straight ahead, her insane grin seeming to intensify, her eyes misting with tears, her cheeks faintly flushed.
Jonathan's mother absented herself from this preposterous tableau, attending to various food preparation and cutlery cleaning tasks in the kitchen. Jonathan could hear the decorator in the dining room whistling to himself, breaking into snatches of song intermittently. Jonathan was tempted to sing along in some weird, misguided show of solidarity. He managed to resist the temptation, this is perhaps an inaccurate representation actually as his crippling self-consciousness would generally forbid such a wanton show of excessively [to his perception] extroverted behaviour.
A moment of silent contemplation occurred between all parties sat at the hardwood rectangular dining table, its length [the silence's] bordering on uncomfortable. Jonathan quietly yearned for his mother to return to the fray and begin yammering inanely; this would surely help put them all at ease.
An odour of urine was beginning to reach Jonathan, emanating from the general direction of his grandfather. The wetness arrives in conjunction with the fall, Jonathan thought to himself. He forced himself to eat cool macaroni and felt feelings of loathing course through him with an almost physical intensity. It was a good job his older cousins were not present; they were wont to make fun of his brooding disposition at times like these which, inevitably, made the situation worse in a vicious cause and effect cycle that stretched onwards indefinitely, perhaps towards imaginary horizons of final despair if one were to indulge the catastrophic thinking processes of a depressive, infinitely pessimistic seven year old lad, but one also given to experiencing surges of unexpected euphoria.