On the first day of Christmas..
It was the postman who knocked on the door. “No problem with the pear tree, squire,” he said, handing me a potted plant, “but I’m afraid we’ve had to take the partridge into protective custody. There’s rules you know, what with bird ‘flu and all.”
On the second day of Christmas..
Some very threatening fellows from a sealife preservation society turned up. “Turtles,” their spokesman said aggressively, “are a protected species.”
“I’ll think you’ll find these are not turtles, but turtle doves,” I explained. He was horrified. “You’ve crossed a turtle with a dove?” he exclaimed. “I’ll have the GM people onto you,” and he stormed off.
On the third day of Christmas..
It was Customs and Excise demanding to know why I had not secured an import licence for the French hens.
On the fourth day of Christmas..
Was wrecked by the calling birds. I took them to be friends of my son, but he denied all knowledge of it, and they kept us awake half the night calling each other on their mobiles.
On the fifth day of Christmas..
The postman left a card asking me to pick up a consignment of five gold rings, which sounded good until I turned up at the depot…
On the sixth day of Christmas..
And found that they were attached to the feet of all but one of half-a-dozen geese. “I hope you realise,” the postal officer said, “that tagged geese are the property of the tagger, and may not be slaughtered and consumed over the festive period.”
On the seventh day of Christmas..
A liveried footman turned up from the Palace with a query about the provenance of a septet of swans that had been sent to me - presumably by the same anonymous troublemaker as had sent me the other items. “If these are royal swans from the river Thames,” he said, “we could have you for treason.”
On the eighth day of Christmas..
The eight milkmaids, complete with cows, attracted a swarm of council officials, from the food standards people to the brothel licensing authorities, arguing over whether to prosecute me for trading in unpasteurised milk or running a disorderly house.
On the ninth day of Christmas..
But when the nine ladies dancing turned up as well, the vice squad gained the upper hand in that dispute.
On the tenth day of Christmas..
The consignment of Lords that arrived seemed set to restore a bit of decorum, until the Lords starting leaping. “Have you done a risk assessment for this activity?” the insurance people wanted to know. “We cannot hold ourselves responsible, under the terms of your contract, for any injuries that may result from the collision of a Lord with your low ceilings.”
On the eleventh day of Christmas..
This was the worst so far, when we were woken by the sound of bagpipes played by a contingent of almost a dozen pipers. My cries of “Go away” were drowned by their inexorable honking (or that may have been the geese, it was difficult to tell) and then my door was nearly knocked down by a man from the council demanding to know whether we had a music licence. “This,” I said, gesturing towards the bagpipes, “is not music,” but my argument lost a good deal of its strength when..
On the twelfth day of Christmas..
A dozen drummers turned up to accompany them.
So, how was it for you? Guess I spent much of Christmas as many did - time with family, friends and the motorway network of the UK.
Then headed down to Devon for a couple days. Coastal scenery and sea breezes - it's not just Skegness that's so bracing. Overall a few days of doing little very little other than sitting on the sofa chatting, surfing or reading - things I don't do enough of during the rest of the year.
Whatever your feelings are about Christmas - be it the warmth of spending time with family, the annoyance of the consumerism, or the joy of 'the reason for the season' - I wish you all a very Happy Christmas.
