#ed mayhew

The door swung loose on its hinges like a sick advent calendar. The lock was shattered. Neighbours said four lads on mopeds had  smashed their way in with a hammer, raided the house and left in three minutes.

Standing in his bright red suit, a sack at his feet, any passing child would assume the chimney was blocked and he had simply taken extreme measures.

Having a big white beard hadn’t paid off today. He had fluffed the line, 'Hohoho', "which", Harry told his niece when she rang, “is pretty much a staple.” Suppressing a cough, the second “Ho” had become an otherworldly hissing. Harry argued that with a lifestyle like Santa’s - North Pole - open sleigh at that altitude - it was no wonder he’d picked up pneumonia.

“They didn’t bite when I said it was method acting.” “Did you get my postcard?” she asked. “It’s on the coffee table, love. Going to make myself a brew when I get in and take my time over it.” “It’s just a postcard.” “But it’s from you. Hang on, I’ll call you later.”

That was when he had arrived home. A policeman stood at his gate, flashing blue lights reflecting eerily off him, trying to suppress a smirk at the man in the red suit. Harry removed his hat, revealing hair that retained some of its brown.

After taking some details, the policeman left apologetically. Catching the thieves looked unlikely.

Inside it was a mess. They had taken the DVD player, his iPad (‘good job I backed up my photos’), a remote control! (‘Stupid boys!’) He almost laughed.

Then he clocked the coffee table. They had cleared off with his post. Mostly junk and bank statements. But no sign of the postcard from his niece.

Harry snapped. He stormed through the house, swearing loudly at every mark that they had made, smelling their putrid breath everywhere, boxing their heads on the pillows of his bed. He roared, describing the pain he would cause if he caught them.

In the hallway he threw his jacket down and bellowed, “It’s Christmas FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!”

Then he looked up. The door had swung open and on the street, a four year old girl stared at him. Mum shielded her eyes and quickly dragged her away.

Harry felt suddenly deflated, the red rage subsiding to a depression. “I hope they crash their stinking mopeds,” he said as he cascaded down into the sofa.

Then from the corner of his eye he saw the waste paper bin. Sticking into view, was a picture of the Swiss Alps. Harry couldn’t believe it. In a moment of Christmas charity, the crooks for whatever reason, had discarded his precious possession in the bin.

Bursting into laughter, Harry sprang to the bin.

“Haha! I take it all back! You’re good lads!” he yelled, and almost, “hohoho!”