The Last Christmas Present (M/m)

Things have been a bit quiet here recently. Reckon you are all out doing late festive shopping. Not surprising but as it is that time of year, decided to post my only Christmas spanking story. Published some years ago it invokes a real Christmas spirit. A boy narrates the tale of how he and his friend Keith got an unusual present from Father Christmas. Whether or not a warm and bare bottom is on your wish list for Santa may I wish you all a Happy Xmas and a peaceful New Year. Alfred Roy

 

I like Christmas. I have always liked Christmas. I think it helps that it falls in December. There isn’t much goes on in our part of the world between Bonfire night and Pancake Day. If it wasn’t for Christmas the winter would be very dull. It must be very frustrating for those whose Christmas falls on a burning summer’s day. If I was them I would move it. You need Christmas in winter to really appreciate it. Or that is what I think. I thought so when I was six, even though I did not then appreciate that some people had hot winters. And I still think so even more now I am much older. In hot winters the snow soon melts. And where I live snow and Christmas go together.

I love the snow. Waking up on a cold morning and seeing everywhere covered in white is magical. You go to bed to a dull and dark world and rise to a blanket of white. It’s always a blanket. They repeat it endlessly on the wireless. The whole of the north was covered by a blanket of snow. If you are lucky you get lots of it for a long time. And if you are really lucky you get it at Christmas, instead of two weeks before or a month after. We always get it at Christmas, or thereabouts. And me and my friend Keith have amazing fun tobogganing and throwing snowballs. When we were younger we used to make a snowman or roll a big ball of snow down a steep hill until it hit a tree and smashed. But throwing snow balls at passing folks or young kids is much more fun.

Or it was until this Christmas. Sitting here writing this reminds me that this Christmas was different. This Christmas I met Santa Claus, the real Santa Claus, and discovered that even in a northern blanket of snow you can get very hot. Keith didn’t think he was the real Santa Claus or, if he was, he was a long way from home. But he was certainly a Santa Claus and this Christmas he gave me and Keith a present we will remember for a very long time. And as Keith said as we left his cottage ‘That’s one Christmas present that will never come wrapped in paper.’

The events I am going to tell you about happened yesterday, four days before Christmas Eve. But it all started the day before. The day that Keith and me woke up in different parts of the village and, looking out of our bedroom windows, saw that blanket of snow. We couldn’t wait to get to it. Within half an hour we were meeting up at the edge of the local wood. Within an hour we were exhausted with endless tobogganing rides. And within two hours, getting bored, we were looking for other interesting things to do. It is a fact of life that some folks are at their most dangerous when bored. And Keith and me definitely fell into that category. My mum reckons he is a bad influence on me and his mother thinks the same. Or rather she thinks that I am a bad influence on him. It never occurred to either of them that we are both as bad as each other. If Keith has an evil thought, I am rarely more than half a second behind.

At the edge of our village there is a playground, where the young kids play, and beyond that a narrow road which runs for about a mile to the next village. In the old days it was used by the packhorses to transport goods. I know this because we did a project at school and the road is known locally as Packhorse Lane. The only building along Packhorse Lane, about half a mile down, is a run-down cottage. No one has lived in it for years. Most of the windows are broken, me and Keith did some of that, the roof is falling off and the rooms are bare and dusty. It has cobwebs on its cobwebs. It’s officially called Aaron’s Cottage for some reason but no one knows who Aaron is or was. But locally it’s known as Christmas Cottage. Don’t ask me why. I reckon some local wag christened it that, and it seems to have stuck. But whatever it is called we only go near it in the daytime. I have never known anyone to go near it at night. Until yesterday.

 

The day before, getting bored with sliding down the hills, we had taken up a good position overlooking the playground and started taking pot shots at some of the younger kids. The braver ones rolled their own snowballs and lobbed a few back. But even if their aim was straight they couldn’t reach us. We were well out of range of their small arms. And eventually we bagged all the ones who hadn’t run away. We reckoned we could clear the playground in ten minutes, five if we pressed our snowballs to make them icy. Keith said it made for a faster and straighter throw. This one-sided game usually stopped when some interfering adult came along shaking a stick or a brolly at us. We would giggle and run off, but not before we had landed two or three good hits. The day before yesterday was different. Well not exactly different. In most respects it was the same. We threw the snowballs. An adult came out. We ran away. In that respect it was the same. But the difference was that this adult didn’t shake a stick or a brolly. He just stood there looking at us. And this is true; I swear this is true, every snowball we threw at him melted.

Keith said this first. We had run off into the woods and didn’t stop until we reached the edge of the brook that runs through it. I say it’s a brook. It’s dry most of the time, even in winter. We sat on a large tree stump near its edge and got our breath back. And when we got our breath back, Keith said that his snowballs had melted. I couldn’t argue with him. I saw it with my own eyes. He’d thrown one which seemed to disappear just before it hit this man, and mine had done the same. We’d both thrown another, not believing our eyes, and then, very gently, a third. We had thrown our third shots much higher and slower, almost as an experiment. They both did the same. They moved through the air towards the man and then they were gone. Exploded. A puff of snow and they disappeared. Always about a foot in front of him. And after our third nervous throws, we ran.

We were both pretty quiet for the rest of the day. We put it down to a trick of the light, but we didn’t convince ourselves. That man had stopped our snowballs. No one had done that before. And who was he? Keith said he had never seen him before in the village and I certainly hadn’t. He was very old or looked as if he was from where we were standing. He was wearing a raggedy old coat and looked a bit like a tramp. And he was covered in dirty grey hair. We both decided he must be a magician. A retired magician down on his luck. And having decided that, we went back into the village to look for him. But we couldn’t find him. Like the snowballs he had disappeared. And we didn’t see him again until yesterday afternoon.

We had been wandering about for most of the day. The snow was still thick but we didn’t feel like throwing snowballs. We had helped Keith’s mum clear the snow from her path. It made a good slide until she put salt on it. And in the afternoon we had been messing about by the bridge in Packhorse Lane, the one that runs over the brook. We weren’t doing anything really, just amusing ourselves. Shaking the snow off the trees was fun and piddling in the snow, trying to write our names, even better. About half past three we started to walk back home. Christmas Cottage is set back from the lane, about a hundred yards from the brook and we wanted to get by it before it got dark. We were about twenty yards from it when he came out of the door. The man. The old man who had melted our snowballs. Or vapourised them as Keith kept saying. He vapourised them he said. For some reason it made us giggle. But we didn’t laugh now, when we saw him come out the cottage door and head off towards the village. We stepped off the lane, behind a bush, and kept perfectly still until he was out of sight.

We didn’t speak for a couple of minutes and then we both had the same idea. That man must be staying in the cottage, probably sheltering for a day or two. We were having a cold snap as my mum kept saying. This cold snap is in for at least a week. So perhaps the old man was looking for somewhere to keep warm. It wasn’t dark yet so a quick peep in the cottage would be a bit of fun. Keith wasn’t keen but I egged him on. He kept saying that the man might be a murderer or worse. He might eat us. But all the while he was saying it he was moving towards the door of the cottage. Like me he was scared and excited. We had never been in it. We had thrown stones at its windows and the crumbling chimney. And we once spent an afternoon trying to land bricks through the large hole in the roof. But we had never been in. And now we did. We quietly lifted the rusty latch on the door and pushed it open. And then we nervously stepped inside. And when we did, we stood there gob smacked.

I tell you, you needed to be there to really understand. No wonder they called it Christmas Cottage. There was a blazing log fire in the grate and lighted candles all round the large room. And the warmth hit you. That’s what we noticed first. Outside it was beginning to freeze again and inside it was like an oven. What I didn’t understand, and still don’t, is how we didn’t notice from the outside. Outside the cottage looked bleak and cold and hostile. But there inside it was like my mum’s Christmas cards. A big decorated tree stood in the corner and lots of wrapped presents sat invitingly under it. There was a big white rug in front of the fire, two cosy chairs, and a long table full of Christmas food. On all the walls there were holly wreaths and paper decorations, and from the ceiling hung the most fantastic red and silver chandelier. And looking up in awe, and Keith noticed this first, there was no hole in the roof. I could swear that I saw that hole before we came in, but in the room the ceiling was clean, crisp and complete. We were in a room which celebrated Christmas. And while we taking all this in, trying to fit this wonderful room into the bleak outside, the door swung open and the man came in.

He didn’t say anything. He just looked at us and shut the door. Then he crossed over to the fire and warmed himself. He was bigger than he seemed when we threw the snowballs. And close up his beard and hair looked more white than dirty grey and, in front of the fire, his raggedy coat had a hint of fading red. He took off his large leather boots and sat down by the fire. He pulled out an old and twisted wooden pipe from his pocket, lit it, and told us to help ourselves to any of the food we fancied and sit down. We were both feeling a bit nervous and neither of us had said anything. Keith backed himself up to the door and tried to open it. The first surprise was that the door would not open. It was not locked because look as you might you would not find a lock. But it would not open. And the second surprise was that the man told Keith that, and in telling him, used his name. He told him that he and his friend, meaning me, were there until he decided to let us go. And then he used my name. He told me to help myself to some food and sit down. He had to tell us twice before we moved. We were amazed and scared. Keith helped himself to some chicken legs and roasted spuds and I had ham, pickles, and crisps. There was enough to feed the village. And we sat down on the rug and slowly ate our food. And all the while the man sat in the chair, watching us, and puffing on his pipe.

Now I need to get what followed in some sort of sensible order. Keith reckons that I am much better than him at writing but I do sometimes run away with myself. And the order of this event is very important. So I am going to use some dialogue. We hadn’t said much while we were eating and, to be honest, being nervous we did not eat much. Keith asked him why he had locked us in and I asked him who he was. And we both asked him how he had managed to make the cottage so nice and how he knew our names. We didn’t ask him if he was going to eat us. Or even worse. And we didn’t ask him, although we wanted to, why we couldn’t see the hole in the roof or the lights from the outside. But he didn’t answer any of our questions, spoken or unspoken. He just smoked his pipe and studied us. But eventually he tapped his pipe out on the fire and put it back in his pocket. And he got ready to speak. I knew he was getting ready to say something because he had that look in his eye that our vicar has when he is going to say something important. And this is where I need to use dialogue. It is very important. To the best of my knowledge the conversation between the three of us, not that Keith did much talking, went as follows.

‘I suppose by now you have guessed who I am?’

That’s the man speaking.

‘A Magician?’

That’s Keith speaking.

‘No.’ The man laughed.

‘A Tramp?’

That’s me speaking.

‘No.’ The man laughed again. ‘But in a way you are both right.’

We looked at each other wondering what we were expected to say.

‘I am both a tramp and a magician. But I am more than that.’ His eyes gleamed and caught the light of the flickering fire. ‘I am Father Christmas.’

Keith and me giggled nervously.

‘Or, at least, I am your Father Christmas. I have a present for you both. A special present. A very special present for boys who throw icy snowballs at young children and old men.’

He paused, waiting for a reaction and when none came he rose and, crossing to the tree in the corner, picked up a large red sack and placed it at our feet.

‘You first Keith. Open it. Take out what is inside.’

Keith looked at the sack and, pushing it away, got to his feet and ran to the door.

‘It won’t open. It won’t open until I am ready. And it would be useless banging on it. No one can hear. So you may as well come back Keith and get your present.’

‘Please let me go home.’

That’s Keith speaking again. He was almost sniffling by now. I just sat there, my heart thumping and desperate for a pee.

‘You can go home. After you have had your present. Now open the sack.’

Keith looked very frightened.

‘Go on Keith. Open the sack. Then we can go home.’

That’s me again, convincing no one, least of all myself.

Keith put his hand in the sack and pulled out the item inside. It wasn’t wrapped and it wasn’t any Christmas present I had ever seen. Or if I did, there were usually two of them.

‘Do you know what it is?’

The man, this Father Christmas, was looking intently at Keith.

Keith didn’t say anything. He just went very pale and stared. In that order.

‘It’s a slipper.’

That’s me again.

‘Yes. A slipper. A large black leather slipper.’

He took it out of Keith’s hand.

‘Do you know what it is for?’

I knew. And Keith knew. We both knew. We knew because we had it at school. But he wasn’t saying and neither was I. We were both beginning to feel uncomfortable.

‘No. No.’

That’s both of us.

‘Really?’

The old man smiled.

‘I think you do. It is made especially for naughty boys. Boys who throw snowballs at young children and old folks. Snowballs packed like ice.’

Keith didn’t say anything. Like me he couldn’t take his eyes off the large shiny black slipper in the old man’s hand. And like me he was hoping that if he played dumb events wouldn’t turn out as we were both fearing. Adults and single slippers usually meant only one thing. Keep quiet and the danger might pass. But the danger was in that room, and it didn’t pass.

The old man held the slipper tightly by the heel, tapped it against the palm of his left hand and spoke again. Quietly, in that warm and silent room, his words caused a frightening shiver.

 ‘Remove your jacket Keith, take down your trousers, and come here over my lap. This Christmas present has come a long way for you, and is long overdue.’

And with that the man sat upright in his chair, patted his large knees, and beckoned Keith to him.

 ‘Do I have to?’

That’s Keith talking again, or mumbling really. If I wasn’t holding my breath I wouldn’t have heard him.

‘I don’t think you have any choice.’

As the old man said this he pulled Keith towards him and started to unbutton his trousers.

 

I don’t need dialogue anymore. Little else was said over the next ten or fifteen minutes. In that moment we both knew why we were there and what was going to happen before we left. Keith sniffles grew louder and my need for a pee grew stronger. I stood and watched, open mouthed, as Keith at first protested and then took off his coat. He slowly undid the rest of the buttons on his trousers and pushed them down to his feet. He shuffled over to the man and, when instructed, lifted up his shirt and jumper. He was wearing a pair of white underpants. I couldn’t help thinking how snugly they fit him. His mum would be proud. The man took Keith by the arm and pulled him over his lap. I was struck at how big the man was and how small Keith looked bent over his knee. And then the man pulled Keith’s underpants down to his knees, revealing his bare bum. Somehow I expected this. Keith didn’t. He sniffled even more. I was gripped.  I had known Keith for years but this was the first time I had seen his bare bum. We were in different classes so had never been in the showers together. I was so gripped by what was happening it was almost as if I wasn’t part of it. I could just look and thrill. My pal Keith was going to get whacked on his bare bum and I was going to watch. And it was a nice bum. A very little and round bum. Two lovely little white cheeks and a very large black slipper was hovering over it waiting to whack down. That slipper could do a lot of damage to such a tiny bum. The old man held Keith round the waist and rested the slipper across the bare cheeks, almost covering them completely. It looked so big and capable of fearful damage. And it was. The first whack brought up a lovely red mark on Keith’s right bum cheek and the second whack did a similar job on his left cheek. And did Keith scream. And after half a dozen like that he was really wriggling and howling. And for the first time I saw his willy. Well, I had seen it before when we peed. But never like this, never fully in view. When the slipper whacked down on his bum and he twisted towards me I could see all of his willy and his balls. The whole lot. That excited me almost as much as seeing his bare bum get whacked. And did he get whacked. I reckon that slipper whacked Keith’s bum at least fifty times. I could have watched it for hours. I know I should have felt sorry for Keith, especially his howling, but that slipper slapping his bare bum was amazing.  By the time the man stopped, Keith was sobbing his heart out, his bum cheeks were a bright burning red, and I had seen all of his bits at least half a dozen times. I have never been so gripped by anything. The old man let him up and Keith hopped round the room rubbing his bum for all he was worth. He was sobbing his heart out and made no attempt to get dressed. All he was doing was rubbing and rubbing his bare bum and showing me his willy. In such a daze it is hardly surprising that I almost missed the subtle change as a beckoning finger summoned me to take his place.

Now I have never been whacked on the bare bum before. And I have certainly never seen anyone else getting whacked with their trousers and pants down. I had been slippered at school but always on my shorts. And I had seen my mates get whacked occasionally. But nothing like this. Nothing anywhere near fifty whacks on the bare bum. And seeing Keith get them had made me breathless and flushed. Keith’s bare bum, that big leather slipper, the cries and screams. The red marks on the white skin. My head was swimming. When that finger beckoned I was in a trance. I was scared. My stomach was churning. I knew I was going to be hurt and hurt big. My bum was going to sting. But as I took off my coat and slowly walked towards the old man in the chair I felt the surge of a strange thrill. My trousers and pants were coming down and I was going to get the whacking of my life on my bare bum. And I couldn’t wait. And by now Keith had quietened down and had pulled up his pants. And he was sitting on the floor waiting for me to get my turn. And he looked almost as flushed and breathless as me. And his eyes were gleaming. I don’t think anything was moving in that room when I started to unbutton my trousers.

 

I was standing so close to the old man that I could hear his breathing and smell the pipe smoke. The way he was looking at me I swear he sensed that, for all my nervousness, I was more ready than Keith. Perhaps it was the slow and deliberate way I undid the buttons on my trousers. Perhaps it was the defiant way I was looking at him. Or perhaps it was the fact that, having pushed my trousers to my ankles, I pushed down my underpants to the same place and lifted my shirt and jumper. Without saying anything I both told and showed him I was ready. I stood there, my hands holding the lifted clothes under my armpits, amazed, excited, and fearful. All in one combined emotion I was enjoying my exposure. And, Keith forgotten, it was me and the old man.

One second he was looking at me, assessing the situation, the next second he had put his right hand on the back of my neck and guided me to his lap. I was pushed down and felt an arm go round my naked waist. I could see the fire and the carpet and the boots he had discarded. Looking down I could see his stockinged feet. And if I turned my head to the right I could see Keith sitting there, silently waiting. And I could feel my small body pressed into his rough clothes. I could feel the shirt and jumper riding up my back and I could feel the pants around my ankles. And I could feel my nakedness. My willy pressing against his clothes and my bare bum, up in the air, meeting the cold tap of that wicked slipper. I could feel and see it all. I was ready. Or I thought I was.

And then the first whack of his slipper hit my right cheek, quickly followed by a second to my left cheek. The sting was amazing. It raced up my body to my brain and danced around my head. I let out a howl. And then he did it again. And again. I am sure Keith gasped. I know I howled. And I twisted and turned. Just as Keith had done. I forgot everything except the pain and sting that was attacking my bum. The more I wriggled the more tightly the old man held on to me. And he whacked even harder. Every bit of my bum burned as each stinging slap found its mark. I screamed, I begged him to stop, I promised to be good, I did everything I could to avoid the next whack. But it did no good. That sharp and shiny slipper found every tiny bit of my bum. It was relentless. I thought I would die. And if Keith had shown me his bits half a dozen times when he got whacked I reckon I showed him mine twenty times. I could not stop squirming and twisting. For a few minutes the only bit of me that existed was my bum, my bare upturned bum, and the savage attacks on it. My mind and bum were as one and the burning fire in both made me cry as I had never done before. And then, with one final searing slap, he stopped.

I reckon I lay over his lap for a good five minutes before he made me get up. All I could feel was this throbbing in my bum and I kept rubbing it to ease the pain. He lifted me off his lap and, unlike Keith, I pulled up my pants straight away and rubbed my eyes and then my bum again. It was so sore I didn’t think I would ever sit down again. And I kept rubbing it, through my trousers, and Keith got up and put his hand round my shoulders, which was nice.

I don’t remember much after that, at least not until we had left the cottage. I remember that bit. We took our trousers down and put our bare bums in the snow. We were so hot down there we could have melted all the snow in the village. As we sat in the snow we wiped our remaining tears and giggled and agreed that we had both had a whacking and a half. Keith showed me his bum and it was bright red with blue round the edges. And then I showed him mine which must have been the same. And as I pulled up my pants I felt my cheeks again. In spite of the snow they were still burning hot. But I don’t remember much else before we left the cottage. My throbbing bum made everything a blur. The old man gave us a hot drink and I think he said something about paying our debt. And he also said something about coming back next Christmas if he needed to. But we just wanted to get away and didn’t hear much. And this time when Keith went to the door it opened. We were half way back to the village when Keith asked me what the time was. I looked at my watch. It said half past three which was why it was still light. But it was half past three when we left the Packhorse Bridge. We must have been in that cottage for at least half an hour, maybe more. But according to my watch and the light we hadn’t been there at all.

 

I wrote all this last night and showed it to Keith this morning. We had both checked our bums and they were still very red so we must have got whacked. All Keith said was he knew what he knew and in spite of too many mentions of bums, my story was accurate. He also said it was graphic and this led to much talk of ‘graphic bare bums’ and got us giggling again. He hadn’t told his mum and I hadn’t told mine. Before we split the day before we agreed that this was something we kept to ourselves. There is no right way of telling your mum that you have been whacked on the bare bum by a man who tells you he is Father Christmas. And that got us thinking again. Who was he? He could melt snowballs, magically mend roofs and lock doors, and make time stand still. And he knew our names. Well the last bit could be easily explained but the rest took some swallowing.

I don’t know which of us thought of it first, probably Keith because if I am the writer he is the thinker, but we decided to go back to the cottage. Remembering what had happened yesterday between half past three and whenever we didn’t skip there. We had no wish for a repeat dose. But something drew us back to the cottage in Packhorse Lane at eleven thirty this morning. Something made us go back. And when we got there we waited for at least an hour to see if anyone went in or came out. But no one did, and looking at the cottage you could not imagine what took place or the room it took place in. The cottage looked its usual mess from the outside but, as Keith pointed out, it looked like that yesterday. The broken windows, the holes in the roof, the dust and dirt. No one had lived here for years. We pushed open the door. We did it together because neither of us wanted to be first. And we stepped into the cottage. Into the room where, surrounded by the joys of Christmas, we had been whacked with a slipper on our bare bums.

When I am older I shall be a writer. A proper writer. And I shall avoid anti-climax. I shall build up my story and then add surprise after surprise. You will be exhausted by it. If this was a story I would create a new twist. The cottage would have become a space ship and we would be rocketed to some planet, miles away. Or it would be a machine which took us backwards or forwards in time. Keith said that’s already been done. Or the old man would be there and he would reveal himself as the supreme master of the human race, bent on destroying all the universal powers. Keith said, if that was the case, he would hardly waste his time whacking bums. He would get his minions to do it. And that started him off again and we got fourteen different versions of the word ‘minions.’ I think he wants to be an actor. But we didn’t get spaceships, or time machines, or supreme beings. We didn’t even get an old man with a grubby beard and a raggedy coat. All we got was the old cottage. Aaron’s Cottage. Christmas Cottage. In all its dust and silence. Dust that had been there for years. Dust, and cobwebs, which had not been disturbed for a long time. Talk about an anti-climax.

I am in need of dialogue again.

‘Where’s all the Christmas decorations?’

That’s Keith speaking.

‘Where’s the food, the fire, everything?’

‘It’s all gone’

That’s me speaking.

‘Then it was magic. Real magic. An illusion’

‘My sore bum aint an illusion’

That’s me again.

‘An illlusion. A graphic illusion. A graphic illusion’

Keith started getting silly again and danced round the room pulling at the cobwebs.

‘It was all a graphic illusion’

‘It was all very real Keith. I just don’t understand it.’

‘Perhaps he was Father Christmas. Perhaps he was telling the truth.’

‘We don’t believe in Father Christmas.’

‘Only his slipper.’

‘We should go. One day we will understand.’

I said that and I was sure of the first bit but not convinced by the second. Keith was comically rubbing his bum as he again danced round the room saying ‘only his slipper’ in a silly voice.

‘You weren’t so brave yesterday.’

I said that bit with annoyance at his silly antics and was just about to leave when I noticed something in the corner of the room. I don’t know what it was about it, all I can say is that it looked odd. It was a sack and it was old and grey and dusty. But when I looked closer the grey took on the light colour of a faded red. It reminded me of the sack that had stood in the corner of this room yesterday. It was the only thing in that room from yesterday. It even sat in the same way. I went over to it and opened it. I had no idea what I would find. I didn’t even know if I would find anything. As I told Keith when we were going home, I was just drawn to it. I opened it and put my hand inside. There were two things inside it. The first was a letter. I say it was a letter. It was just a sheet of paper with scrawly writing on it. The paper was old and thin and the writing was tiny. But it was easy to read. And as I read it Keith leaned over my shoulder taking in the words with me. And this is what it said.

‘This is the last Christmas present I shall ever give you. You will soon be a man but, until then, if you have need of it, I shall not hesitate to use it. I have used it many times in the past and shall do so many times in the future. It is a good servant to me and a good master to those who fail to learn by other means. It teaches a sharp lesson and gains attention as no other method can. When you no longer have use of it you will have grown to the estate of man, and I shall have moved on to those more in need of its services’

It was addressed to Aaron and dated 1838. And it was signed ‘Father Christmas.’

Keith took the letter from me and read it again. As he did so I put my hand back in the sack and pulled out a large, very old, very faded, black leather slipper. We looked at each other and then placed the two items back in the sack.

We are never going back to that cottage again and, about half an hour ago, we made a solemn vow. The cold snap is coming to an end and this blanket of snow will soon be a memory. When it comes again, as it will in the north, just to be on the safe side we are sticking to tobogganing. That old man may or may not have been the real Father Christmas, Keith still isn’t sure, but he convinced me. And as I said to Keith as we left, if we didn’t get a magical slippering how come nobody heard our screams? Keith went very quiet. I sometimes think he can’t cope with my intelligence.

 

Alfred Roy (2009)