’Twas the night before Christmas, so naturally Nanny Piggins was up on the roof Santa-proofing the house by fastening chicken wire over the chimney.
‘Right, pass me the nail gun,’ instructed Nanny Piggins.
‘You know Santa Claus is not a bad person,’ said Michael, handing it to her.
‘I know that,’ said Nanny Piggins.
‘Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!’ went the nail gun.
‘No-one likes getting presents from strangers more than me,’ continued Nanny Piggins, ‘but that doesn’t mean that breaking and entering is all right. If he wants to give us gifts he should knock on the door, come in and have a slice of cake like a normal person.’
The children looked at each other. Their nanny was not accustomed to the finer points of Christmas. Because, you see, she had lived most of her life in the circus, and the Ringmaster never let them celebrate the yuletide holiday.
In fact, he never let them celebrate any holiday. He even discouraged them from knowing the day of the week. Anything that allowed them to measure time, and realise how long they had been working for him, was strictly forbidden.
‘It amazes me that one overweight man, wearing a bright red fur-trimmed suit no less, manages to go on a worldwide crime spree on the same night every year and nobody has ever done anything about it!’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘You’d think at the very least the animal rights activists would have a go at him for wearing fur.’
‘Perhaps they don’t because they like getting presents,’ suggested Michael.
‘You’re probably right,’ agreed Nanny Piggins. ‘So few people have principles anymore. Especially when it comes to a stocking full of chocolate treats and toys. Now where’s my note?’
Derrick handed his nanny the note she had written earlier. It read:
Dear Mr Santa Claus,
Kindly refrain from breaking into this home via the chimney. If you were a true gentleman you would knock at the front door and introduce yourself. Or at the very least climb in through the upstairs bathroom window like a normal person.
Kind Regards
Nanny Piggins F.P. (Flying Pig)
‘There, that ought to do it,’ said Nanny Piggins as she used the nail gun to fix the note to the chimney stack.
Boris promptly burst into tears. Celebrating Christmas was new for him too, but unlike Nanny Piggins he was anxious not to miss out. ‘But what about me?’ blubbered Boris. ‘My shed doesn’t have a chimney. How am I going to get my presents?’
Samantha gave Boris’ leg a comforting hug. ‘I’m sure he’ll climb in through the window or dismantle part of the roof. After all, he’s Santa, so he’s got lots of initiative.’
‘I hope so,’ said Boris, struggling to control his tears. ‘It’s just that I really do like getting presents.’
‘It’s bears like you who send mixed messages to burglars,’ said Nanny Piggins sternly. ‘Either it’s all right to break into people’s homes or it’s not.’
‘You break into people’s homes all the time,’ Derrick pointed out.
‘But that’s different,’ protested Nanny Piggins.
‘How?’ asked Michael.
Fortunately Nanny Piggins was saved from having to find logic in her argument because at this point they were interrupted by a noise from below.
‘There is someone on the street,’ whispered Derrick.
‘Is it the Police Sergeant?’ asked Nanny Piggins. ‘I called him and reported that there was a large fat man, wearing red, breaking into houses tonight. True, he did laugh at me and hang up. But perhaps he has decided to do something about it after all.’
They all crept to the edge of the roof and looked over. And they were startled by what they saw. It was not the Police Sergeant. No, it was someone much more impressive. It was the greatest annual home intruder of them all.
‘It’s Santa Claus!’ gasped Nanny Piggins.
There was no mistaking the red clothes, the white beard, the sack full of toys and the ‘little round belly that shook like a bowl full of jelly when he laughed’ (not that he laughed while they were watching him. But he did sneeze and it definitely wobbled then).
‘But where are his reindeer?’ asked Boris. It did seem strange to see Santa travelling on foot. He did not look like a man who took exercise regularly.
‘Perhaps they’ve ditched him because they don’t want to do jail-time,’ said Nanny Piggins.
‘He’s got a lot of toys in that sack,’ said Michael. ‘I hope he’s got something good for us.’
‘Pass me the nail gun again,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I’ve got a present for him if he tries getting down our chimney.’
‘You can’t shoot Santa with a nail gun!’ protested Samantha.
‘Not even a little bit?’ asked Nanny Piggins.
‘No!’ exclaimed the children.
‘I could just nail his boots to the roof until the police get here,’ suggested Nanny Piggins.
‘He’s got to deliver presents to all the boys and girls in the world,’ explained Derrick. ‘He hasn’t got time to be arrested.’
‘He’s only got to deliver them to all the good boys and girls,’ muttered Nanny Piggins. ‘That’s probably only seven or eight children on the entire planet. After all, 365 days in a row is an awfully long time to expect a child to behave themselves. Most of them struggle to keep it up for five minutes. Delivering presents to good children will probably only take him an hour or two. Then he’ll go home to the North Pole and watch television.’
‘Well, I’ve been a good boy and I’m not letting him forget about me!’ declared Boris as he leapt up to his full height, waved his arms and called out, ‘Hey, Santa! I live in the shed around the back. I haven’t got a chimney but I’ll leave out a chainsaw and you can cut a hole in the roof if you like.’
Unfortunately Santa Claus was so shocked to suddenly be addressed by a ten-foot-tall bear standing on a rooftop, that he stumbled backwards, dropping his sack and falling into the gutter, where he hit his head hard on the edge of the pavement.
‘Oh my goodness!’ exclaimed Samantha. ‘You’ve killed Santa!!!’
Boris burst into tears. ‘I didn’t mean to!’ he sobbed.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll first-aid him,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘He may be an international master criminal, but if he needs an icepack I’m just the pig for the job!’ With that dramatic statement, Nanny Piggins leapt straight off the roof.
When the children rushed to look over the edge they were relieved to discover Nanny Piggins had caught the branch of a tree. (She had been watching Robin Hood and had seen Errol Flynn do something very similar, so she had been secretly practising leaping out of her second-storey bedroom window all week.) She then climbed down the tree and rushed over to Santa.
The children hurried back into the attic, ran down the stairs and out through the house to help her (which only took three seconds more, but was nowhere near as impressive).
‘Is he all right?’ asked Derrick.
‘Well he’s breathing,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘but just look at him! He’s wearing a red jacket with red trousers! His dress sense is in serious trouble.’
‘Maybe that’s fashionable at the North Pole,’ suggested Boris.
‘Looking silly isn’t fashionable anywhere,’ said Nanny Piggins firmly, ‘unless you’re a clown and then it is an unfortunate occupational requirement.’
‘Check his pupils,’ suggested Samantha.
‘His what-whats?’ asked Nanny Piggins.
‘The black part of his eyes,’ explained Derrick.
‘Why?’ asked Nanny Piggins.
‘That’s what they always do on TV medical dramas,’ explained Samantha.
‘Then it must be right,’ decided Nanny Piggins. She pulled up each of Santa’s eyelids and had a look at his eyes. (This was easy to do because she had been eating toffee so her trotters were sticky and it was easy to get a good grip on his eyelashes.) ‘Mmm,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Yep, they definitely look like eyes.’
‘Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?’ asked Michael.
‘We could,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘but they would only call the police. And you know the Police Sergeant made me promise I would not make any more citizen’s arrests this week.’
Nanny Piggins had tried arresting the Post Mistress at their local post office, arguing that the length of her queues were a cruel and unusual punishment, and that since torture had been outlawed under the Geneva Convention, the Post Mistress clearly should be thrown in jail.
‘You don’t want me to spend Christmas Day in jail, do you?’ asked Nanny Piggins.
‘You spent Easter in jail and you said you enjoyed it,’ Derrick reminded her.
Nanny Piggins had been arrested after hurling herself at an Easter bunny in the shopping centre and wrestling him to the ground. In the end she was let off because, as she told the judge, ‘The Easter Bunny only had himself to blame. Dressing up in a full-sized bunny suit and handing out free chocolate is like dressing-up as a zebra and standing in the lion enclosure at the zoo.’
‘Yes, but I got to eat all the Easter Bunny’s chocolate before I was arrested,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I haven’t had my Christmas lunch yet. And you promised to make the most wonderful Christmas lunch ever, so I don’t want to miss that.’
‘We can’t leave Santa unconscious and lying on the footpath on Christmas Eve night,’ said Derrick. ‘What are we going to do with him?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?!’ exclaimed Nanny Piggins.
‘No,’ said the children.
‘I may not know a lot about celebrating Christmas, but I have watched every Christmas movie and television special ever made,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘So I know that when Santa falls ill, or sprains his ankle, or is kidnapped, it is the job of the first person who finds out to take over and do his job.’
‘What are you saying?’ asked Samantha. (Samantha actually knew exactly what Nanny Piggins was saying, but she was desperately hoping she was wrong.)
‘I shall be Santa Claus and deliver presents to all the boys and girls of the world!’ declared Nanny Piggins.
‘All the good boys and girls,’ corrected Boris.
‘No, I’m going to give presents to the bad children as well. Unlike Santa I believe in positive reinforcement,’ explained Nanny Piggins. ‘If they’re behaving badly and you want them to improve, you have to use the carrot as well as the stick.’
‘But you always say you’d rather be hit by a stick than have to eat a carrot,’ argued Michael.
‘Just because the expression doesn’t make any sense doesn’t make it any less true,’ said Nanny Piggins sternly. ‘Now help me get Santa inside.’
‘Do you want me to carry him?’ asked Boris.
‘No, I think we’d better drag him,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘He’s a heavy one and I’d hate for you to get a hernia on the night before Christmas. Especially when you promised to perform the entire Nutcracker ballet for us after lunch tomorrow.’
And so Nanny Piggins, Boris and the children dragged Santa inside (only banging his head three times on the edge of the garden path and once on the telephone table in the hallway).
‘What next?’ asked Samantha. ‘Are you going to put on Santa’s clothes?’
‘First of all,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘it would be highly impertinent to undress the man. He’s got a head injury, so I’d find it very hard to justify to the Police Sergeant why I took his trousers off. And secondly, I would never wear such an unflattering outfit.’
The children looked at Santa. Nanny Piggins did have a point. Bright red was not very slimming.
‘It’s almost as if he’s proud to have a weight problem!’ continued Nanny Piggins. ‘In this day and age, when everyone is so concerned about childhood obesity, he is hardly a good role model. No, if I am going to be Santa Claus, I am sure I can find something much more glamorous to wear.’
And so Nanny Piggins dashed upstairs and disappeared into her bedroom. She reappeared five minutes later wearing a fabulous off-the-shoulder crimson ball gown, which was perfectly accessorised by two beautiful dangling earrings that Nanny Piggins had made out of two chocolate Santas. (Chocolate Christmas tree decorations never actually made it to the tree in the Green house.)
‘Right, hand me Santa’s sack, I’m off to deliver presents,’ announced Nanny Piggins.
The children did not know what to say. They could have said ‘Are you out of your mind?’ or ‘How are you going to climb down a chimney dressed in that?’ But they realised it would be much more fun watching Nanny Piggins try to climb down a chimney dressed in a ball gown. So Derrick simply said, ‘Here you are,’ as he handed his nanny the sack. Then they dutifully followed behind her as she carried it out into the street.
‘Where shall we deliver presents first?’ asked Nanny Piggins.
There were not a lot of children living in the street (one of the chief reasons for Mr Green choosing to live in the neighbourhood).
‘Mrs Roncoli’s grandchildren are staying with her,’ suggested Samantha. ‘Julia is five and Raymond is two.’
‘Perfect,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘And I know for a fact that Mrs Roncoli baked a Dundee cake this morning, so perhaps we can have a slice of cake while we’re in there.’
‘Wouldn’t that be wrong?’ asked Derrick.
‘We’re breaking into her house!’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘If she catches us, she’s not going to quibble about a slice of cake.’
Nanny Piggins, Boris and the children crossed the street and let themselves in through Mrs Roncoli’s front gate. Then they stood back and watched Nanny Piggins. They should have realised that their nanny was not going to let a little thing like an ankle-length satin ball gown hamper her athleticism. She just hitched the hem of her skirt up into her undies and scampered up the drainpipe like a monkey.
Next it was the children’s turn to get up on the roof, and since Derrick, Samantha and Michael had no circus training, this was not so simple. But the children found that if they climbed up Boris and stood on his head (which he did not mind), they were high enough to grasp Nanny Piggins’ trotter. Then she could pull them up, one at a time, to join her.
Pulling Boris up was going to be a little bit harder, what with him weighing 700 kilograms and not being able to stand on his own head. But the problem was solved when Nanny Piggins told him she thought she saw a bee by his left foot, and he simply leapt up onto the roof without any help from anyone.
Nanny Piggins, Boris and the children then made their way over to the chimney and peered over the edge. It was very dark and black inside.
‘I’m going to throw the presents down first,’ said Nanny Piggins, emptying her sack into the chimney. ‘That way they can break my fall.’
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like us to fetch a rope so we can lower you down?’ offered Michael.
‘Pish!’ said Nanny Piggins, as she climbed up on the chimney stack. ‘There’s no time for that. I have a whole planet’s worth of toys to deliver. Wish me luck!’ And with one last wave to the children she dived headfirst down the chimney. The children heard nothing for a moment . . . then the distinctive sound of a pig falling headfirst onto a pile of toys.
‘Ow!’ said Nanny Piggins
‘Are you all right?’ called Derrick, his voice echoing down the chimney.
‘Yes,’ replied Nanny Piggins. ‘Although in hindsight I probably should have only thrown the soft toys down first. A scale model of the Taj Mahal does not make for a very soft landing.’
‘Can you see the Christmas stockings?’ asked Michael.
‘I can’t see anything, it’s too dark down here,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘No, hang on, I can’t see anything because my skirt is over my head. I’ll just adjust that . . . Wait a minute, there’s no way out! There are bricks on all four sides.’
‘I didn’t like to say anything earlier, Sarah,’ said Boris, leaning over the chimney, ‘but Mrs Roncoli did get a gas heater installed last month. You remember, you made the workmen lend you their van so you could get even more chocolate than usual from the sweet shop.’
‘What’s your point?’ asked Nanny Piggins.
‘I’m pretty sure that to install a gas heater you first have to brick-up the fireplace,’ explained Boris.
‘Well of all the . . .’ Nanny Piggins muttered a few very rude things that I cannot repeat here in print. But the gist of it was – she was not impressed that Mrs Roncoli had failed to explain the full details of her renovation plans to Nanny Piggins both personally and in writing.
‘What are we going to do?’ worried Samantha.
‘I’m going to give Mrs Roncoli a piece of my mind,’ said Nanny Piggins.
‘But how are you going to get out of there?’ asked Derrick.
Nanny Piggins looked up at Boris and the children twenty feet above as they stared down the chimney at her.
‘Hmmm,’ said Nanny Piggins.
‘What are you thinking?’ asked Boris.
‘I was just thinking . . . that from the inside, a chimney is an awful lot like a cannon,’ said Nanny Piggins.
Twenty minutes later the children were standing a safe distance away on the far side of the street as Boris rolled out the last of the fuse wire.
‘This is safe, isn’t it?’ asked Samantha.
‘Well, I wouldn’t say it was safe,’ admitted Boris (he was an honest bear). ‘If anyone else tried it I’m sure it would go horribly wrong. But at the circus, Nanny Piggins used to get blasted out of a cannon seven times a night. So this will be a walk in the park for her.’
Boris lit the fuse.
‘You know we could just knock on Mrs Roncoli’s door and explain what happened,’ said Derrick, beginning to panic.
‘Or lower a rope down and pull her out,’ suggested Michael.
‘Ooh, that is a good idea,’ said Boris. ‘It’s a shame it’s too late now. Look, the fuse is almost there.’
The children watched in horror as the fuse disappeared into the chimney.
‘Cover your ears,’ advised Boris.
Derrick, Samantha and Michael only just got their hands to their ears before they were shaken by the huge blast. The shock waves knocked Derrick and Samantha off their feet (they would have knocked Michael off his feet too except he was standing right in front of Boris and it is hard to go anywhere when there is a 700-kilogram bear right behind you). Then they saw a streak of crimson rocket up into the sky with the distant cry of ‘Yippeeeeeeeeeee!’ from Nanny Piggins as she flew up into the stratosphere.
‘Oh my goodness, how is she going to land?!’ exclaimed Samantha. ‘We didn’t rig up a safety net.’
‘She’ll be fine,’ said Boris confidently.
‘What do you mean she’ll be fine?!’ said Derrick. ‘Gravity causes a body to accelerate at 9.8 metres per second. If she goes a thousand metres in the air that means she will hit the ground going –’ Derrick struggled to do the maths in his head.
‘Really fast,’ supplied Michael.
‘Sarah knows what she is doing,’ said Boris.
‘Does she secretly have a parachute in her ball gown?’ asked Samantha.
‘She has got one in her red clutch purse. But whoops!’ said Boris, holding up a red clutch purse. ‘She gave that to me to mind.’
‘Oh no,’ said Samantha. ‘This is going to be the worst Christmas ever.’ And Samantha knew quite a bit about bad Christmases because their beloved mother had gone missing in mid-December (and before she’d had a chance to make a Christmas cake, so it was a double tragedy).
But a moment later, instead of seeing their nanny plummeting back to earth as they expected, they saw, illuminated in the moonlight, what looked like a giant red umbrella with two pig’s feet in the middle, floating slowly down towards the ground.
‘I don’t believe it,’ exclaimed Derrick. ‘Nanny Piggins’ skirt has puffed out and it’s acting as a parachute!’
‘Now I can see why Nanny Piggins says it is vitally important to always wear clean underwear,’ said Michael.
Nanny Piggins gently drifted down below the line of the rooftops, then they heard the most wonderful sound. Instead of a crash or a thud, there was a huge ‘kersplash!’ as Nanny Piggins landed safely in the backyard swimming pool of Mr and Mrs Taylor, three blocks away.
‘You see, I told you she’d be fine,’ said Boris.
Boris and the children ran around to the Taylors’ house and met a very soggy Nanny Piggins emerging from the front gate.
‘Well that was fun!’ said Nanny Piggins excitedly. ‘Although I think I’ve ruined my best ball gown. I must have a word with Mr Taylor about using less chlorine in his pool.’
‘You’re not hurt?’ asked Samantha.
‘Not at all,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I enjoyed it tremendously. There was just enough time in my flight for me to eat my chocolate earrings.’
‘But what are you going to do about delivering all the toys?’ asked Derrick. ‘You’ve been Santa Claus for forty minutes now and you haven’t managed to deliver any presents.’
‘At this rate you’ll never get presents to everyone in just one night,’ added Michael.
‘I must admit I don’t seem to be as effortlessly good at this job as I am at every other job I try,’ conceded Nanny Piggins. ‘Perhaps we should go and consult Santa. He may have regained consciousness by now, and he might be able to let me in on some of his tricks. He could at least tell me where he parked his reindeer.’
So Nanny Piggins, Boris and the children went back to their house where they found Santa still lying on the couch. They knew he was all right because no-one with a serious head injury would snore that loudly.
‘Wake up, Santa,’ called Nanny Piggins. ‘Wake up!’
Santa suddenly woke up with a grunt and a very unattractive snort. ‘What, what, what?’ said Santa. ‘What is the meaning of this?’
‘Santa sounds awfully familiar,’ said Samantha with growing dread.
‘Aaaggghhh! His beard has fallen off!’ exclaimed Nanny Piggins when Santa’s beard had came away on her toffee-stained trotters.
But the children were not looking at the beard, they were looking at a far more shocking sight – the now naked-faced Santa.
‘Aaaaggghhh, it’s Father!’ yelled the children.
‘Urgh,’ moaned Mr Green. ‘What happened? I’ve just had the most peculiar dream. I was walking along the street when suddenly a great big fat bear started yelling at me.’
Boris (who had hidden under a lampshade as soon as he saw Mr Green) whimpered. He was very sensitive about his weight.
Nanny Piggins, who was very protective of her brother, slapped Mr Green hard across the face.
‘Ow!’ squealed Mr Green. ‘What did you do that for?’
‘Oh I’m sorry,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Slapping is for hysteria, isn’t it? And icepacks are for head injuries. I always get those two confused. I really must finish reading that first-aid book.’
‘Give me back my fake beard,’ demanded Mr Green. ‘I don’t want to lose my deposit at the costume shop.’
‘I will not. How dare you walk the street impersonating a beloved holiday icon,’ scolded Nanny Piggins. ‘Children love Santa. Just think how disappointed they would be if they thought Santa was like you.’
‘I’m not dressed up in this ridiculous costume voluntarily,’ snapped Mr Green. ‘I only did it because the senior partner made me for the firm’s Christmas party.’
‘Why you?’ asked Derrick.
‘I was the only one the red suit would fit,’ admitted Mr Green.
‘Ah yes, because you’re fat,’ said Nanny Piggins nodding knowingly.
‘But why were you bringing home a big sack full of toys?’ asked Michael. ‘Shouldn’t you have given them out at the Christmas party?’
‘I didn’t get a chance to give away any toys because none of the children would come and sit on my lap,’ grumbled Mr Green. ‘I threatened to take a wooden spoon to them if they didn’t do as they were told, but that only seemed to make them cry harder.’
‘What I want to know,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘is if there was a work Christmas party, why didn’t you take your own children?’
‘Um well, um . . .’ stuttered Mr Green. ‘It never occurred to me. I forgot I had children, I suppose.’
‘Well, that’s a relief,’ said Derrick. ‘At least we didn’t hurt the real Santa.’
‘And we can leave it to the real Santa to deliver presents to all the boys and girls of the world,’ added Samantha.
‘I suppose,’ conceded Nanny Piggins, ‘but can we still go back across the road so I can blast myself out of Mrs Roncoli’s chimney again. That was a lot of fun.’
‘I don’t think Mrs Roncoli would appreciate it if we did structural damage to her home,’ worried Samantha.
‘Pish!’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I’m sure she won’t even notice.’
And so Nanny Piggins, Boris and the children had a wonderful Christmas Day. It started well when Mr Green went into the office to do some paperwork (he needed to rack up brownie points because he was going to have a tricky time explaining to the senior partner how the sack full of toys had come to be a small pile of melted debris). Then because Nanny Piggins had never made a Christmas dinner before, the children were in charge of all the cooking. And knowing their nanny well, they served Christmas pudding, Christmas pudding, Christmas pudding and Christmas pudding for entree, main course, dessert and second dessert.
Admittedly Nanny Piggins did ruin the first Christmas pudding. When the children turned off the lights and brought the pudding into the dining room topped with flickering brandy sauce, Nanny Piggins was so horrified to see a dessert on fire she threw herself on the flames (risking her dress and her personal safety). But once the children had explained that flaming brandy sauce was traditional and in no way damaged the pudding, Nanny Piggins was able to relax and enjoy the meal. She enjoyed sucking the pudding off her dress. And then they all enjoyed eating the other three puddings off plates. After they had eaten as much as was physically possible, they went into the living room and had a wonderful time watching Boris perform The Nutcracker. (He did break two vases and the light fitting but only because he put on such a spectacular performance.)
‘So, Nanny Piggins,’ said Michael. ‘What do you think of Christmas?’
‘I think it’s wonderful,’ said Nanny Piggins.
‘So you’re not going to put chicken wire over the chimney next year then?’ asked Derrick.
‘No, of course not,’ said Nanny Piggins.
‘Good,’ said Samantha with relief.
‘Next year,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘I’ll put a trip wire down by the stockings. Santa will never see that coming.’
Regrettably, because my weak-willed publishers fret and fuss every time someone threatens to sue them, I am being forced to tell you how to make a ‘safe’ Santa trap.
Apparently several spoilsports (parents) are concerned that children who read my story Nanny Piggins Saves Christmas will be inspired to climb up on their roof and nail chicken wire over the chimney. (Indeed, two children in Switzerland already have. The Swiss will insist on building their houses with extremely steep roofs. Fortunately there had been six feet of snow the night before so the children had something lovely and soft to fall on.)
Obviously there is nothing wrong with trying to prevent home intruders. But many parents and emergency room doctors are concerned because so few children have advanced circus training or proper safety harnesses and, therefore, have a tendency to fall off their rooftops. This is not a problem for the children of Coober Pedy where roofs are at ground level, but anybody who lives in an above-ground dwelling is really ill-advised to fall off a roof, especially if they live in a multi-storey block of flats.
Trust me, you don’t want to spend Christmas Day in hospital. I shudder to think what they would serve for your Christmas lunch. They might say it’s ‘turkey’, but given the sorry state of our public hospital system it is more likely to be a rat the chef caught down the back of his refrigerator.
So here are the instructions for building a safe Santa trap (safe for you, but not for Santa).
Instead of climbing up on the roof and nailing chicken wire over the top of your chimney, simply nail the chicken wire over the bottom of the chimney, across the open fireplace. This will save you having to climb up on the roof, in possibly inclement weather, and it will actually work far better because chicken wire at the bottom will trap Santa inside your chimney so he has no way of escaping until the police arrive. In fact, if you leave a packet of biscuits in the fireplace (preferably chocolate-coated), Santa will be so busy gobbling them up he may not even realise that he is trapped. As you can guess from his physique, he really does like chocolate biscuits.
So there you have it. Please don’t climb up on your roof just to trap Santa. He is not worth it, and you might fall off the roof. If you block the chimney, you will only encourage Santa to smash his way in through a window and it is devilishly hard to get a glazier to come out and repair a window on Christmas Day.
There are many, many ways to make a chocolate cake and I urge you to try them all, repeatedly, several times a day if possible. But sometimes, when you are in the grip of a particularly urgent need for cake – perhaps because your blood sugar has dropped to an unhealthy low after being forced to run away from a truancy officer, police swat team or irate neighbour – it is best to keep things simple. Here is the recipe I use when I need chocolate cake and I’m too delirious with hunger to do anything more complicated.
180 grams caster sugar
180 grams butter (soften in the microwave first)
180 grams self-raising flour
a pinch of salt
3 eggs
2 tablespoons of cocoa (or drinking chocolate if you’ve already eaten all your cocoa)
2 friends (one strong and one fast moving)
1. Preheat your oven to 180°ºC.
2. Grease a cake tin and line with baking paper. (NB. You don’t have to bother doing this if you are happy to rip the cake out of the tin a handful at a time and lick the sides clean with your tongue.)
3. Put the sugar and butter in a bowl and mix together.
4. Add the eggs, one at a time.
5. Stir in the self-raising flour, salt and cocoa.
6. Now, you must RESIST THE URGE TO EAT THE BATTER (at least not all of it). You might need a large strong friend to physically hold you back at this stage. Preferably while screaming ‘No, don’t do it, Nanny Piggins! Let the batter become a cake!’
7. Get another friend to tip the batter into the cake tin.
8. Pop the cake in the oven and bake it. Depending on what sort of oven you’ve got and what sort of tin you’ve used, it should take between 25 and 40 minutes to cook. You can tell when it’s done by poking the cake with a knitting needle. (Be sure to take any knitting off the needle before you use it, or the old lady you stole it from will get cross with you.) If it’s uncooked, the needle will have batter on it. If it’s cooked it should come out cleanly.
9. Eat it.
I hope you enjoy this recipe as much as I do.
Rest assured, the game Sardines does not actually involve the eating of sardines. Fish is bad at the best of times because it is almost never served with chocolate, but sardines are fish with extra badness because they are squashed into a tiny tin full of oil and salt, which only serves to make the fish taste extra fishy.
The only thing the game Sardines borrows from the fish sardines is the squashing.
Basically, Sardines is exactly the same as Hide and Seek except when you find someone you don’t loudly say, ‘Ha ha, I found you. What a terrible hiding place. What on earth made you think of hiding there?!’
No, in Sardines when you find the person hiding you squeeze in and hide next to them.
So if you are playing with ten people, by the end of the game there will be nine people all squashed into one hiding space while the one last sad person haplessly wanders the halls looking for you.
I once played a game of Sardines that lasted for six days. Luckily I had several cakes sewn into the hem of my dress so the six other players and I were able to sustain ourselves in our hiding position in a freestanding wardrobe. It was only on the seventh day, when it occurred to us that perhaps we should climb down and check, that we discovered that the last player had got bored and gone back home to Belgium.
Nevertheless, Sardines is an excellent game.
