There Ain't No Sanity Clause

Last year we steeped a load of dried fruit in all the spirits we would never drink, and made a Christmas cake and two and a half puddings.  Delia’s recipe was for two pint puddings but Fester is always over generous with ingredients.  We had one pudding with Christmas lunch and the other one pint and half-pint puddings are sealed up in foil in the cwtchdanstar* for this year.

Every year since he was orphaned, in his mid-forties, Bazoukiboy has had Christmas lunch with us.  Some years he drives over bringing bottles of non-alcoholic beer, others he walks and carries the real stuff.  He is a key worker in the pharmaceutical industry.

Watching the news in the caravan last week Ferretfingers announced mournfully “Christmas is cancelled.”

“No it isn’t” we assured him “our Christmas will be the same as it’s always been.”

 

Then we realised the present unpleasantness and his key worker status might mean Bazoukiboy won’t be able to join us.

“Well if he can’t” I said “we can always put the spare half pudding on his doorstep.   

We can send Thunderthighs over with it on Christmas Eve.  He could put it on the doorstep, knock and run away.”

Fester thought this might be a good idea.

“Better still” I went on “You could deliver it.  We’ve got a nice big red fleece and an appropriate hat.  Can you imagine what kids’ reactions would be seeing you on the metro on Christmas Eve?”

He was surprisingly firm in his refusal to co-operate.

Even when I offered to sew bells into the hat so he could jingle all the way.

 

*Cupboard-under-the-stairs for those of you who don’t know the language of the good and godly.