It was the first day of the last week of school, and Nanny Piggins immediately knew something was wrong when she saw Samantha getting off the bus looking cheerful. It usually took Samantha 45 minutes and several slices of cake to let go of the anxieties caused by a day’s worth of education.
‘Why is your sister looking so happy?’ Nanny Piggins asked Derrick and Michael. ‘Has the canteen been selling those ice-blocks with the banned red food colouring in them again? Last time she had one she was hyperactive for a week, and had a red tongue for a month. Now I don’t begrudge anyone a treat-induced mania, but I would be much more comfortable with her food-fuelled joy if it was caused by a good old-fashioned ingredient like sugar rather than a modern man-made one like flavourings and illegal imported food colouring.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with iceblocks,’ Derrick assured his nanny.
‘Go on,’ Michael urged Samantha, ‘tell Nanny Piggins your good news.’
‘I’m a shepherd,’ declared Samantha with a beaming smile.
‘She’s got a head injury, hasn’t she?’ said Nanny Piggins knowingly. ‘Was it a fall? Or did she get in a fight in the canteen line while she was waiting for her contraband iceblock?’
‘No, she really is a shepherd,’ said Derrick.
‘In the school nativity play,’ added Samantha, finally able to stop feeling giddy long enough to say something helpful.
‘But you’re a girl!’ protested Nanny Piggins. ‘How can you be a shepherd? Everyone knows all shepherds are men, because no woman would be silly enough to stay up all night in a field full of sheep. No disrespect to sheep, I know they are lovely, sweet-tempered creatures. But they are also unimaginably stupid and they do get their own poo stuck in their wool and do nothing about it.’
‘They are going to give me a fake beard to wear,’ explained Samantha. ‘All the shepherds are girls. There aren’t enough roles for girls otherwise.’
‘Your school astounds me,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘They are dogmatic about the ridiculous five-day-a-week attendance rules. And now, just because it’s Christmas time, they actively encourage cross-dressing.’
‘Isn’t it wonderful!’ exclaimed Samantha as she literally skipped with delight.
‘You’re going to have to explain this to me,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I am completely unable to fathom your sister’s uncharacteristic ebullience.’
‘She was worried she was going to be asked to play the lead role,’ said Derrick. ‘You know – Mary.’
‘Who?’ asked Nanny Piggins.
‘The mother of Baby Jesus,’ explained Michael.
‘Oh, her,’ said Nanny Piggins.
‘Usually Margret Wallace plays her every year,’ said Derrick.
‘But Margret Wallace has blonde curly hair and blue eyes,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘whereas Mary came from the Middle East so she must have had brown eyes and hair.’
‘But Margret is the prettiest girl in school,’ explained Michael. ‘Mary always gets played by the prettiest girl in school.’
‘But this year,’ said Derrick, ‘Margaret Wallace got chickenpox and is covered in spots.’
‘Surely Nanny Anne wouldn’t let a little thing like that stand between Margaret Wallace and the lead role in a play,’ said Nanny Piggins.
Nanny Anne was one of Nanny Piggins’ (many) arch rivals. In fact if there had been a tear in the space–time continuum, causing Nanny Piggins to be exactly replicated in a reverse clone, someone who was opposite in every single way, then Nanny Anne is what you would get (which makes you wonder if this is how Nanny Anne was created).
‘Margaret also broke her nose,’ added Michael.
‘She got chickenpox and broke her nose!’ exclaimed Nanny Piggins. ‘What terrible bad luck.’
‘Well the chickenpox sort of caused the broken nose,’ explained Samantha. ‘Nanny Anne put so much calamine lotion on her that she got some in her eye and couldn’t see properly so she walked into a doorknob.’
‘I don’t blame her,’ said Nanny Piggins sympathetically. ‘If Nanny Anne were my nanny I’d walk into a doorknob too.’
‘She’s still going to be in the play,’ said Derrick.
‘But surely the poor child should be at home lying down?’ protested Nanny Piggins.
‘Nanny Anne insisted that the show must go on,’ explained Samantha.
‘But what could she possibly play with such hideous facial impediments?’ asked Nanny Piggins.
‘She’s going to be the back end of the donkey,’ said Derrick.
‘Nanny Anne can’t be happy about that,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Who’s playing the front end?’
‘I am,’ said Michael happily, ‘because I’ve already had chickenpox.’
‘Good,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Remind me to pack lots of chocolate inside the donkey suit for you to share with poor Margaret. One of Nanny Anne’s great failings is her total lack of appreciation for the recuperative properties of dairy milk chocolate. So who are you playing, Derrick?’
Derrick blushed. ‘Joseph,’ he admitted.
‘The male lead!’ exclaimed Nanny Piggins.
‘I think technically Baby Jesus is the male lead,’ corrected Michael.
‘Yes, but it isn’t a speaking part,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Any part that is traditionally played by a plastic doll is not a good role for an actor.’
‘I’ve got three whole lines,’ said Derrick proudly.
‘Excellent,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Show me the script and I’ll punch them up for you. See if I can add some jokes and perhaps a touch of soft shoe dancing.’
‘I don’t think you’re allowed to punch up the script,’ said Samantha. ‘It’s from the Bible.’
‘Saint Luke won’t mind,’ Nanny Piggins assured her. ‘I’ll only make improvements. After all, it’s been over 2000 years. The dialogue could probably do with freshening up and perhaps a few contemporary political references.’
‘I don’t think Headmaster Pimplestock will go along with that,’ warned Derrick.
Nanny Piggins sighed. ‘I find that there is no end to what Headmaster Pimplestock will agree to once I put him in a headlock,’ she said.
So Nanny Piggins sat down to read the play. The school had been performing the exact same nativity production with the exact same props and costumes for thirty years. This made things very easy for the staff, because by the time the children were old enough to play the talking parts they had seen the play so many times that they knew all the lines by heart. But Nanny Piggins was not going to let a little thing like tradition sway her.
‘This play is appalling,’ she denounced. ‘Who wrote it?’
‘I think Headmaster Pimplestock did,’ said Derrick.
‘Typical,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘That man has less imagination than a fruit bat – a species that is pathologically unimaginative because of the excess of fruit in their diet.’
‘I know the dialogue is a little stilted,’ said Derrick, ‘but nativity plays are supposed to be simple.’
‘It’s not the complete lack of word play, action sequences or fist fights that appalls me,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘It’s that he’s got all the facts entirely wrong.’
‘Really?’ asked Samantha. ‘I’m pretty sure he includes all the main plot points from the Bible.’
‘Aha,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘That’s where he went wrong.’
‘How?’ asked Derrick.
‘There is a much more reliable account of what went on in that stable the night that Baby Jesus was born,’ said Nanny Piggins.
‘Really?’ asked Michael, beginning to get excited. He could sense a stunning revelation coming.
‘Yes, the oral history of the Piggins family includes a firsthand account of that night, which has been passed down through generations, from pig to pig,’ declared Nanny Piggins. ‘You see, my great times ninety-eight grandmother, Yudith Piggins, was in the stable that night.’
‘No way!’ exclaimed the children.
‘She helped deliver the baby,’ said Nanny Piggins.
‘You’re pulling our legs,’ said Samantha.
‘Well, you don’t think Joseph delivered the baby, do you?’ asked Nanny Piggins. ‘In these tricky situations you always need a woman, or preferably a pig, to take charge.’
‘Tell us the story, Nanny Piggins, please,’ urged Michael, knowing that if Nanny Piggins said a Piggins was present at the first Christmas, events must have been even more exciting than the recorded history.
‘All right,’ agreed Nanny Piggins, checking her watch, ‘if you give me forty-five minutes to whip up baklava. You shouldn’t tell stories without something sticky and sweet in your hand.’
And so forty-five minutes later the children sat around Nanny Piggins on the couch, a tray of sticky honey-flavoured pastry on each of their laps, ready to listen to her story.
‘Long long ago,’ began Nanny Piggins.
‘Over 2000 years ago,’ supplied Derrick.
‘Don’t interrupt,’ snapped Nanny Piggins. ‘The dates are neither here nor there. The shocking details of the first Christmas that I am about to tell you are much more significant than a 2000-year-old calendar system.’
‘Sorry,’ said Derrick.
‘That’s quite all right,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Where was I? Oh yes, Long long ago . . .’ She glared at Derrick before continuing, ‘My great times ninety-eight grandmother Yudith Piggins was minding her own business and having a lovely nap after a particularly delicious dinner of chocolate cake.’
‘I didn’t know they had chocolate cake 2000 years ago in the Middle East,’ said Samantha.
‘Humans didn’t,’ agreed Nanny Piggins, ‘but pigs have always been way ahead of humans in the field of experimental cooking.’
The children nodded, encouraging her to continue.
‘So Yudith Piggins was sound asleep, snuggled up in the corner of a stable behind an inn when –’ continued Nanny Piggins.
‘Hang on,’ interrupted Derrick.
‘Again with the interruptions,’ complained Nanny Piggins, rolling her eyes.
‘I don’t mean to be disrespectful,’ continued Derrick.
‘People who say that are always about to be very disrespectful,’ accused Nanny Piggins.
‘In the Middle East, people don’t eat bacon or pork,’ said Derrick carefully. (The subject was a very sensitive one to his nanny. The mere mention of the word ‘bacon’ could send her into a shin-biting frenzy.)
‘That’s true,’ agreed Nanny Piggins. ‘They are a very civilized people. What’s your point?’
‘Why would there be a pig in the stable then?’ asked Derrick.
‘If they don’t eat pork, where else would the pig be?’ asked Nanny Piggins.
‘No, I mean, why would they even –’ began Derrick.
‘You’ve already heard the story to know there was no room at the inn,’ said Nanny Piggins.
‘Yes, but –’ continued Derrick.
‘She was hardly going to go and sleep in an open field with the sheep like some sort of wild animal, was she?’ asked Nanny Piggins.
‘Well,’ began Derrick.
But Samantha put her hand over his and whispered to her brother, ‘Derrick, we all want to hear Nanny Piggins’ story. If you start trying to apply logic and rational thinking we’re never going to get through it, are we?’
‘Sorry,’ said Derrick, realising that his sister was entirely right. ‘Please continue.’
‘Yudith Piggins was having a lovely dream about a world where fruit was soaked in so much brandy and cooked with so much fatty suet that it actually tasted good, when she was rudely awoken by a great big pregnant lady sitting on her trotter,’ said Nanny Piggins.
‘Ow!’ cried Yudith Piggins. ‘How dare you crush my trotter, and when my imagination hadn’t finished inventing all the ingredients to go in the pudding I was dreaming about.’
‘Sorry,’ said the pregnant lady. ‘It’s just nice to sit down on something that isn’t a donkey.’
‘Have you tried a chair?’ asked Yudith Piggins.
‘I’d love a chair,’ said the pregnant lady, ‘but they won’t let us in the inn.’
‘Really?’ asked Yudith Piggins. ‘That would be right. That innkeeper is a rotter. He wouldn’t let me borrow his oven to make crème brûlée, so I’m not surprised he doesn’t let a eight-and-a-half month pregnant woman inside his inn. He’s probably worried you’ll have the baby and keep him up half the night asking for boiling water and towels.’
‘I think my feet have swollen,’ said the pregnant lady.
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Yudith Piggins. ‘That’s the problem with travelling by donkey, there’s no foot rest.’
‘Do you mind if I have a little nap?’ asked the pregnant lady.
‘Not there!’ exclaimed Yudith Piggins. ‘I keep my stash of sticky buns under that pile of hay. Come over here, there’s a nice pile of hay that the cow hasn’t got around to using as a toilet yet.’
‘Thanks,’ said the pregnant lady, before promptly falling asleep. Yudith Piggins was just about to do the same when a man came into the barn.
‘What is this?’ demanded Yudith. ‘Is this Bethlehem’s hip new meeting place or is it a stable?’
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ said the man politely. ‘Is my wife all right?’
‘She’s gone to sleep,’ said Yudith Piggins. ‘She was telling me some crazy story about you making her travel a long distance on a donkey.’
‘It’s true,’ said the man. ‘We’ve come all the way from Nazareth for the census.’
‘Are you out of your mind?! She’s eight-and-a-half-months pregnant!’ exclaimed Yudith Piggins. ‘She shouldn’t be travelling anywhere, except perhaps to the nearest cake shop for more sustenance.’
‘We had to,’ said Joseph. ‘It’s the law. You have to return to the place of your birth for the census.’
‘Yes, but it should be pretty easy to get around that,’ said Yudith Piggins. ‘DNA technology and fingerprinting haven’t been invented yet, so as long as you turn up with a woman at the census, they’re never going to know whether she’s your actual wife. That way you could let this poor pregnant woman stay at home with her feet up, eating bonbons.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ admitted Joseph.
‘It never ceases to amaze me that humans think they are the dominant species when they are so poor at lateral thinking,’ said Yudith Piggins. ‘And deceit,’ she added as an afterthought.
‘Aaagh!’ interrupted Mary.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ asked Yudith Piggins.
‘I think the baby is coming,’ said Mary.
‘I bet it’s a boy,’ said Yudith Piggins. ‘Only a man could have such bad timing.’
‘What should I do?’ asked Joseph.
‘Do you know how to bake a chocolate cake?’ asked Yudith Piggins.
‘No,’ admitted Joseph.
‘That’s a shame,’ said Yudith. ‘All this drama is making me peckish. Never mind, I’m putting you in charge of holding Mary’s hand and saying supportive things. Do you think you can handle that?’
‘I think so,’ said Joseph.
‘Failed!’ declared Nanny Piggins. ‘Until this baby is born I want every sentence you say to be phrased in the most positive way possible. Do you think you can handle that?’
‘Ummm . . .’ Joseph racked his brain, trying to stop it panicking and focus. ‘Of course, everything is going to be all right.’
‘Now kiss her and tell her she’s beautiful,’ ordered Yudith Piggins.
‘Aaaagggghh,’ wailed Mary as another contraction hit.
‘Do you really think it will help?’ asked Joseph.
‘Just do as I say!’ demanded Yudith Piggins.
‘You look beautiful,’ lied Joseph, before giving Mary a kiss.
‘Good work, keep it up,’ urged Yudith. ‘Don’t worry, she’ll be in too much pain to be able to tell that you’re lying.’
And so, two hours later, after much screaming, pushing and swearing like a sailor (from Yudith Piggins, obviously Mary did not have a potty mouth), the baby was born.
‘And they called him Baby Jesus!’ called out Samantha.
‘Who’s telling this story?’ demanded Nanny Piggins. ‘If you are going to yell out all the good bits, where’s the fun for me?’
‘Sorry,’ said Samantha, ‘Please continue.’
‘And they called him . . . Baby Jesus,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Then Mary had a long nap and Joseph sat with his head between his legs waiting for the feeling of nausea to go away. Yudith Piggins herself was just settling down to go to sleep after a long night of mid-wifery when there was a knock at the door.
‘Who could that be?’ complained Yudith, before calling out through the door. ‘If you’re another expectant mother – go away! This is a stable, not a hospital. We animals need our sleep too, you know.’
‘Yoo-hoo, hello!’ called a voice from outside.
Yudith Piggins instinctively knew that anyone who was silly enough to call out ‘Yoo-hoo’ at two o’clock in the morning was unlikely to go away just because you yelled at them to, so she got out of her makeshift bed of hay and went over to answer the door.
‘This had better be good,’ she said as she swung open the door and was surprised to discover three shepherds standing there.
‘What do you want?’ asked Yudith Piggins.
‘Glory to the newborn king!’ declared one of the shepherds.
‘How dare you,’ said Yudith Piggins. ‘I’m not a King. I’m a lady. So if you are going to declare me royalty I’d be a Queen.’
‘No, the baby,’ said the shepherd. ‘Unto you a child has been born and he will be our new king, saviour of us all.’
‘How impertinent,’ declared Yudith Piggins. ‘I have not had a baby. And if I had had a baby I certainly wouldn’t stand around talking to a bunch of shepherds.’
‘But the Angel of the Lord came to us in the field,’ said the shepherd, ‘and told us that the bright star would guide us to the stable where Christ our saviour was born.’
Yudith Piggins turned and looked up at the sky. She had to shield her eyes from the glare because an enormously bright star was shining directly above them.
‘Let me get this straight,’ said Yudith Piggins. ‘An angel came to you in the field, told you a baby had been born and that you should go and visit it?’
‘That’s right,’ said the shepherd.
‘And this angel didn’t mention anything about appropriate visiting hours, or waiting a few hours while the mother got over a difficult labour?’ asked Yudith Piggins.
‘No,’ admitted the shepherd.
‘The angel didn’t say anything about not bringing your sheep to meet a newly born baby, whose immune system hasn’t developed yet and may be susceptible to goodness knows what sheep-born diseases?’ asked Yudith Piggins.
The shepherds looked down at the sheep they were carrying, which were undeniably dusty and slightly poo-ridden.
‘Ooops,’ said the shepherd. ‘We didn’t think of that.’
Yudith Piggins sighed. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t blame you, but this angel should have known better.’
‘So can we see the baby?’ asked the shepherd.
‘All right,’ conceded Yudith Piggins. ‘If you leave your sheep outside and you wash your hands thoroughly first.’
So Yudith Piggins led the shepherds in to see the baby. Mary was fast asleep on a bed of hay. And the baby was . . . nowhere to be seen.
‘Joseph!’ called Yudith Piggins.
Joseph looked up. He was still a bit green around the gills. ‘Yes.’
‘Where’s the baby?’ asked Yudith Piggins.
‘Oh, he fell asleep,’ said Joseph, ‘so I lay him in the manger.’
‘You did what?!’ accused Yudith Piggins. ‘What were you thinking? The animals eat out of the manger! Have you any idea how unhygienic that is? And not just for the baby, think about the poor animals! Would you eat off a dinner plate that someone had let a newborn baby sleep on?’
‘Um,’ said Joseph. Truth be told, after all he had seen in the last few hours, he wasn’t planning to eat again any time soon.
‘Never mind,’ said Yudith Piggins with a sigh. ‘I suppose if I have a stern word with the cow and the donkey I should be able to persuade them not to lick the baby for a few days. But really, didn’t you read any of the baby books?’
So the shepherds visited the baby. They all agreed he was most adorable. They counted his little toes, sniffed his lovely soft hair and said ‘oochiekookichoociecoo’ and all the other things everyone does when they meet a newborn. Then they went out into the town and proudly boasted of seeing the baby that would one day be their king. To which everyone said, ‘Yeah yeah, pull the other one.’
And so things returned to normal, or as normal as a stable with donkey, a cow, a very glamorous pig, a newly married couple and a newborn baby can be. Until late one night, Yudith Piggins was again awoken by a knock at the door.
‘Urgh,’ groaned Mary. She had just got the baby back to sleep; the last thing she wanted was for someone to come along and wake him up again.
‘I’ll get it,’ said Yudith Piggins, ‘and they better have a jolly good reason for waking us up at such an anti-social hour, or they are going to get a short sharp nip on the shins.’
When Yudith Piggins opened the door she was startled to discover it wasn’t shepherds this time, it was three amazingly dressed kings. She could tell from all the expensive, gold decorated robes they were wearing, and the fact that they had camels with them, that they were from some far distant, even more exotic land.
‘What do you want?’ asked Yudith Piggins suspiciously. The stable was becoming very overcrowded. She didn’t think they could fit in three kings and their camels as well.
‘We three kings from orient are,’ said the first king. His grammar was a little strange because Aramaic wasn’t his first language.
‘Bearing gifts we travel so far,’ said the second king.
‘Moor and mountain, field and fountain, following yonder star,’ added the third king.
Yudith Piggins looked up at the bright star overhead. ‘That star again,’ she muttered, ‘causes nothing but trouble. Although it does mean we can read at night without a reading light.’
‘We come bearing gifts,’ said the first king. Now this got Yudith’s attention.
‘Really?’ she said. ‘Well, that’s more like it. What did you bring? Chocolate cake?’
‘No, I’ve brought gold,’ said the first king.
‘I’ve brought frankincense,’ said the second king.
‘And I’ve got myrrh,’ said the third king.
‘None of you has children of your own, do you?’ said Yudith Piggins, shaking her head sadly. ‘It didn’t occur to any of you that the kid might prefer a squeaky soft toy or a teething ring.’
‘Sorry,’ said the first king.
‘That’s all right,’ said Yudith Piggins. ‘I suppose it’s the thought that counts.’
Yudith Piggins showed the three ‘wise’ men in. They gave their gifts, worshipped the baby, then spent a few awkward minutes trying to make small talk with the young parents, with whom the three royals had absolutely nothing in common.
They were just about to leave when the third king piped up and said, ‘Oh, by the way, when we came in to town we dropped by King Herod’s place.’
‘Really?’ asked Joseph politely.
‘It’s a royal thing,’ explained the king. ‘When you’re in town you have to drop by the local king to say hello.’
‘Oh,’ said Mary.
‘Anyhoo,’ continued the third king, ‘we did mention that we were coming to see a newborn king who would one day be king of us all.’
‘And how did he take that?’ asked Yudith Piggins suspiciously.
‘Very well,’ said the second king. ‘He said to give you his love. And he wants us to drop by on the way home to give him your postal address.’
‘You nitwit!’ accused Yudith Piggins, as she leapt to her trotters. ‘This is King Herod you’re talking about. And you’ve just told him a new king has been born who will one day take over his job.’
‘I hadn’t thought about it that way,’ admitted the king.
‘And Herod’s not exactly a king renowned for turning up and giving newborns frilly booties, is he?’ accused Yudith Piggins.
‘No,’ admitted the kings.
‘He’s better known for killing everybody who annoys him, isn’t he?’ accused Yudith Piggins.
‘Yes,’ conceded the second king. ‘He killed my camel because he said it looked at him funnily.’
‘Right,’ said Yudith Piggins, ‘everyone is packing up now.’
‘But it’s the middle of the night,’ moaned Mary.
‘Come on,’ said Yudith, ‘you’re never going to get a good night’s sleep here anyway, what with all the farm workers and foreign royalty who keep dropping by. You and Joseph had better take Jesus and flee into the desert before Herod finds you.’
‘All right,’ agreed Joseph.
‘And you three,’ said Yudith Piggins, glaring at the three kings, ‘you had better go home the long way, via Damascus.’
‘Awww,’ complained the kings, ‘not Damascus. You can’t get a decent falafel ball in Damascus.’
‘That’s enough of that,’ ordered Yudith Piggins. ‘You’re the one who dropped Mary and Joseph in it with Herod. You have to make up for it by sneaking out of town and going to the last place he’d ever look for you.’
‘All right,’ agreed the kings.
‘And that,’ announced Nanny Piggins, ‘is the story of the first Christmas. Jesus grew up to say a great deal of tremendously wise things about sharing food and being kind to children, and to try his hardest to save us all from our sins. With some of us there is so much sinning that is quite an undertaking. And it only came to be because he was lucky enough to have a Piggins act as midwife at his birth.’
‘Is that true?’ asked Michael.
‘Whether it is true or not is not the question,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘You have to have faith. And I have faith that if one of my ancestors was in the stable that night feeding the little baby crumbs of chocolate, it is the only rational explanation as to how a baby could flourish in such unhygienic circumstances.’
I object to the game Pin the Tail on the Donkey on ethical grounds because I think it encourages small children to torture the bottoms of innocent donkeys with drawing pins.
Now the scholars among you, who are familiar with the story of the first Christmas, will know that it was in fact a donkey who carried Mary, a full-term pregnant lady (and therefore no lightweight) all the way from Nazareth to Bethlehem (156 kilometres), a very impressive feat.
If that little donkey had not so heroically hauled Mary such a long way, there would be no Christmas! And with no Christmas there would be no Christmas presents, and no post-Christmas sales with heavily discounted chocolate! So really at this time of the year, donkeys should be treated with more respect than being randomly poked with pins.
That said, pinning the tail on things is jolly good fun. I enjoy any game that involves a blindfold and a pointy object. So I have redesigned the game to make it more suitable for Christmas Day. It is called Pin the Tail on Mr Green.
Simply draw a life-size picture of Mr Green. (If you have never met Mr Green, simply imagine the most boring person you know and combine them with the most irritating person you know and that will be good enough.)
Then hand out some tails (with drawing pins attached) to all the children and let them have a go at it.
Not only will the children enjoy the game, but you as the organiser can enjoy the experience of watching such an unpleasant person get skewered repeatedly.
I shall always remember the first time I tried rock cakes. I was pleasantly delighted to discover they taste nothing like rocks at all. They are, however, best eaten as soon as possible after emerging from the oven. When they are fresh, rock cakes are fluffy and spicy. But after an hour or two they change. Their texture begins to resemble the rocks they are named after. But if this happens to your rock cakes, do not despair. In doing so they become excellent projectiles. And experience has taught me that if you throw rock cakes at people you get in much less trouble than when you throw actual rocks.
225 grams self-raising flour
½ teaspoon mixed spice
110 grams butter
110 grams caster sugar
110 grams mixed dried fruit
2 tablespoons milk
1 beaten egg
Deadlocks on all your doors and windows
1. Roll up your sleeves and get your trotters dirty when you rub the butter into the flour and mixed spice. (Don’t worry, it is very pleasant to lick off later.)
2. Add the caster sugar and dried fruit.
3. In a separate bowl whisk the egg and milk, then add them to your mixture.
4. Now stir everything together thoroughly.
5. Drop the batter into a greased cupcake tin. (Be sure to leave plenty of batter in the bowl and on your wooden spoon for you to contentedly suck on while your cakes bake.)
6. Put the cupcake tray in the oven and bake at 200º°C for about 10 minutes. (You may have to cook them longer. It depends how much batter you put in each cupcake hole.)
7. Now this is the single most important step – LOCK ALL THE DOORS AND WINDOWS IN YOUR HOUSE! I cannot overemphasise the importance of this step. You see, freshly baked rock cakes smell so mouth-wateringly delicious that unless you want to share them with every single one of your neighbours, it is essential that you secure your home against cake invaders.
8. Turn your rock cakes out onto a cooling tray, but don’t let them cool too much as they are delicious while hot.
Eat and enjoy. Or leave and enjoy throwing at someone later. Either way, rock cakes are marvellous and I recommend them highly.
I am not usually a conspiracy theorist. I do not believe the government is hiding evidence of alien invasion. I don’t believe that Elvis Presley is still alive and selling second-hand cars in Florida. And I don’t think Hollywood filmmakers faked the moon landing. (Actually, the Ringmaster did but that is a story for another time.)
I do, however, believe there is a widespread movement among misguided mothers to sneak healthy food into children’s snack. You may have noticed this; perhaps some of the chocolate chips in your chocolate chip cookies have tasted more like sultanas, or you saw the remnants of carrot on the grater after your mother had been baking your birthday cake.
The root of the problem is that your mother loves you. So much so that she is prepared to sacrifice the taste of your food just so that you live a long and healthy life.
I have no such concerns. This recipe for chocolate cookies is very simple. It has no health benefits but the cookies taste extremely good.
120 grams butter
60 grams caster sugar
120 grams self-raising flour
30 grams drinking chocolate powder
a pinch of salt
1. Cream the butter and sugar.
2. Stir in the flour, drinking chocolate and salt.
3. Fight the urge to shove all the beautiful brown cookie dough in your mouth at once (or make a double quantity so you can shove half in your mouth and still have some leftover to make cookies).
4. Form the dough into balls the size of a walnut and place well apart on a baking sheet.
5. Flatten the balls with a wet fork.
6. Bake at 180°C for about 15 minutes.
NB. If you have been a naughty girl or boy, these cookies are an excellent treat to leave out for Santa. He is quite the cookie connoisseur. One bite of one of these deliciously crisp chocolate biscuits and he will pop the lump of coal back in his pocket and give you the pop gun or racing bike that you’ve been asking for.
On behalf of
Nanny Piggins, Boris and the Green children
I would like to take this opportunity to wish you all a happy, safe and chocolate-filled holiday season.
Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Bonza Kwanzaa and Yaki-dah,
from
R.A. Spratt (the author)
