Panic Over! Maybe. Or Maybe Not...

 Fret not, Dear Reader. As usual, I am correct about the life versus death status of Father Christmas. This is precisely why I have decided to be the star of the Christmas Story this year. Proceedings will be brought to an unfussy, uncomplicated and satisfactory conclusion because it is I who am in charge, and not the usual bunch of crackpot hens, hyperactive cats, assorted other species and an egotistical Phantomime called Kenneth, who unfailingly turn the story into an unnecessarily complicated hoo-ha of a malarkey. 

I’ve soon got Father Christmas propped up in the second best rocking chair next to the cosiness of the Aga, and it isn’t long before he starts to show flickerings of life - twitching, fidgeting, shouting out random phrases like ‘I told you pâté wouldn’t work!’…

‘See!’ I say, triumphantly to the hens who are gathered around the resting figure. ‘Not dead at all. Just a bit concussed.’

‘Eurghhhh,’ moans Father Christmas. ‘My head…’

‘It was her, Your Lord Northpoleship,’ says Mrs Poo, pointing at me. ‘It was her wot tried to do you in.’ (Excuse the Cockney slip there - Mrs Poo is rehearsing for the local amdram production of ‘My Fair Chicken’ where she is to play Eliza Doabit Butnottoomuch.)

‘I’m sorry I threw a garden gnome at you, Father Christmas,’ I say, given Mrs Poo a bit of a glare. ‘But in my defence, it was a small one and I did think you were a burglar.’

Mrs Slocombe has gone into nurse mode and is attempting to apply a bread sauce poultice to the lump that has emerged on the back of Father Christmas’s head which is pushing his hat upwards into an unflattering jaunty angle. ‘It’s not sticking very well,’ she says, scooping up fallen dollops of sauce from the floor and attempting to reattach them using a pebble dashing technique.

‘That’s because your bread sauce is always too sloppy,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘I tell you every year that it needs more bread and less sauce, but you never listen. It needs to be stiff, like a punk’s Mohican hairstyle, not like a Teddy Boy floppy quiff.’

There now follows an image of the correct consistency of bread sauce. Mrs Slocombe’s bread sauce looks nothing like this:

I intervene at this point because Father Christmas is recovered enough to start looking rather testy about being covered in gloop.

‘I’m sorry about the bread sauce, too,’ I say.

Father Christmas pulls himself up in the rocking chair. ‘What time is it?’ he says.

‘7.45 p.m British time,’ I say.

‘7.45?’ shrieks Mrs Slocombe. ‘The party starts at 8.30. I need to get a shift on my gingerbread houses!’

‘7.45?’ shrieks Father Christmas, which is not something one generally associates with a ‘yo-ho-ho’ kind of guy. ‘British time? I should be over Turkey by now. Where are my reindeer? Where is my sleigh?’

‘Up on the roof?’ I suggest.

‘They won’t be up there,’ says Father Christmas. ‘I’ve had the sleigh fitted with an automatic timing device. It only allows a 3.2 second landing at any one time before take-off is triggered. It’s a time and motion thing. Mother Christmas is always complaining I’m late for Christmas dinner, so I thought I’d try out this timer and get back early to surprise her.’

I’m not quite sure how to respond to this revelation. One doesn’t expect Father Christmas to be quite so, well, new-fangled and high-tech. Father Christmas, though, seems suddenly unperturbed about being sans sleigh. He is letting out a deep sigh, kicking off his boots and stretching his toes against the warmth of the Aga. He looks like a man who has accepted inevitable defeat and is happy to stay inside and cosy with a bit of toast and a game of Scrabble. 

‘I expect they’ll realise I’m missing at some point,’ says he, yawning. ‘And my assistant is still onboard. I’m sure he’ll manage. I think I’ll stay put for a while. It’s lovely and warm here.’

‘You have an assistant?’ I say. ‘Some sort of elf, I imagine?’

‘Oh no!’ says Father Christmas. ‘Elves are all very well and good in their place, which is making toys in the workshop. But you daren’t give them even a sniff of power. You might as well unleash the Hellhounds of Beelzebub. For a start, they’d never countenance giving away the toys they have so lovingly crafted to a bunch of hooligan children. Elves are very territorial about what they consider to be theirs.’ 

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Who knew, eh?’

‘Quite,’ says Father Christmas. ‘No, this assistant came as part of the automatic timing device package. Sort of technical support, if you like. Nice chap. A bit on the flamboyant side, maybe, but we all go a bit over the top with festive jumpers at this time of the year, don’t we?’

As if to prove the point, Mrs Pumphrey makes a grand entrance through the kitchen door, resplendent in her Christmas Party 2021 costume, which appears to be a replica of the Regency outfit worn by Elton John to his 50^th birthday party. So tall is her powdered wig, in fact, that she is forced to perform a limbo dance in order to get through the door.

‘Good heavens!’ I say.

‘I know!’ says Mrs Pumphrey, triumphantly. ‘I truly think I’ve surpassed myself this year.’

‘Will there be any room for the rest of us in the Ballroom?’ says Mrs Slocombe, a tad crossly because 1) she is still sweating over party food and 2) she is covered in bread sauce poultice.

‘Ahahahaha!’ says Mrs Pumphrey.

‘Ahahahaha!’ says Ptolemy Pheasant, emerging from beneath her voluminous skirts, where he became trapped when Mrs Pumphrey swooshed herself downstairs and he happened to be in the way.

‘Ssssh…’ I whisper, touching a finger to my lips. ‘Look – Father Christmas has fallen asleep…’

We look at the figure, suddenly seeming very small, fast asleep and snoring gently.

‘It must be a tough job, being Father Christmas,’ says Ptolemy Pheasant. ‘It’s not one I’d fancy. All that racing about, clambering up and down chimneys, fretting about central heating systems and leaving reindeer droppings on rooftops.’

‘Me neither,’ I say. I tuck a blanket over Father Christmas’s legs. He seems to be warming up nicely.

‘Nor me!’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘Come on then – party time!!’