Day 1 - Decisions Are Made Beyond the Author's Control.

‘Well,’ I say, looking at the expectant faces gathered around the huge table in the Great Dining Hall of Much Malarkey Manor, ‘I didn’t think it was going to happen this year, but it is!’

There is a sharp intake of breath as everyone wonders of what I speak. I’ve been muttering about all sorts recently, and I’m not talking liquorice here either.  

‘The Much Malarkey Manor Annual and Traditional Christmas Story!’ I say, and wait for the expulsed air of relief to settle before I continue. ‘I thought we had done it all. I thought we had covered every Christmas story there was. I’ve been wracking my brains for a full two months now, trying to come up with something we haven’t done before and then it hit me! We haven’t done a version of one of the Great Christmas Films of Yore!’

‘Your what?’ says Mrs Slocombe, who is more interested in the selection of pastries I have brought to this breakfast meeting, because that is what one does, isn’t it? Eat pastries at breakfast meetings?

‘Not ‘your,’ I say. ‘Nor ‘you’re’ come to that. Yore. As in ‘nostalgia for times long ago.’'

‘Ah,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘Can I have a pain au chocolate?’

‘Not yet,’ I say. ‘Wait until I’ve made my announcement.’ I continue. ‘So, back in my childhood, before the internet and multi-station satellite television were  invented…’ (I pause to allow the horror of this scenario to sink in) ‘…and there were only three TV stations, Christmas Day and Boxing Day showed the same rotation of films year in, year out.’

‘Only three stations?’ says Bambino Bobble Wilson. ‘THREE??’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘BBC 1, BBC2 and ITV, only we weren’t allowed to watch ITV because it was deemed too common and therefore likely to corrupt our young minds FOREVER.’

‘Sheesh,’ says Bambino, his eyes glittering with disbelief at my deprived childhood, and wondering how he would ever manage without Dave, and he wasn’t thinking of his friend ‘Dave the Fish’ who delivered cod from the back of his refrigerated van once a week.

‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘Christmas consisted of only three big films. They were ‘The Great Escape…’

‘Very Christmassy,’ says Mrs Miggins, ignoring instructions and already on her third croissant. ‘Film about the war.’

‘…The Sound of Music…’

‘Nuns and the war…’

‘And The Wizard of Oz!’ I say.

‘The who of what?’ says Bambino. Readers are kindly reminded that Bambino is but a mere child  of our  21^st century and therefore is unable to sustain sitting through a great classic film of almost two hours in length without wandering off after ten minutes to raid the fridge/ check his FaceBook/ Twitter/ Instagram/ play Pocket Pond on his ipad. He is not au fait with ‘The Wizard of Oz.’

‘The Wizard of Oz,’ sighs Mrs Miggins. ‘It’s one of my top 17 favourite films.’ She flicks crumbs of croissant from her beak. ‘Is that our Christmas story for this year?’ she says.

‘Better than that,’ I say. ‘This year we are performing, ‘The Wizard of Oz - Off-Piste 2019 – a Tale of Two Cities, One Here That is Home and One Over There Which is Green and Sparkly.’

‘You might want to reconsider the title,’ says Tango Pete, who is taking minutes and trying to keep the writing to a minimum.

'Okay,' I concede. 'Maybe the title is a bit of a beakful. Just put down, 'The Wizard of Oz.'

‘Well, this is all very exciting,’ says Mrs Miggins, jumping down from the table, which the others take as a signal to launch a noisy attack on the remaining pastries. ‘I accept the role of Dorothy, thank you very much…’

‘But…’ I begin, and then stop because she gives me a bit of stare.

‘And now I am off to the attics because I am pretty certain the red sequin stilettoes belonging to my Great Aunt Wanda Round are up there. They will make perfect ruby slippers once I’ve knocked off the heels. Can’t do heels anymore. Not with my back.’ And she is off before I can say, ‘But I haven’t cast you as Dorothy.’

I make a note to re-write the cast list immediately, and hand around a synopsis of the story to the others with strict instructions for them to watch the film but not to get too hung up on the details because, as I said, we are likely to go a little off-piste. Leaving them to their carb-fest, I close the dining hall door behind me and head for the library.

Almost immediately, a tall and mysterious figure looms at me from the shadows of the dark hall.

‘I assume I am to take the role of the Mighty Wizard himself?’ he says.

‘Yes, yes…assume away,’ I say, impatiently. I might just as well save myself the work and let them choose their own roles. The whole thing is already rumbling with trouble.

‘Good,’ says the dark and mysterious figure, before sweeping his cloak around his shoulders and gliding away, leaving a trail of, ‘Mwahahahahahaha….’ behind him.

I don’t know why I bother, really I don’t, I think as I shut myself away in the library for some peace and reflection. This whole Christmas story tradition has turned into a monster over the years. I spend all my time trying to please everyone and they all do what they want regardless.

I am so busy muttering away to myself that I fail to notice there is a gnu in the library, sitting at the small table between Geography and Cookery. It gives a sort of ‘Ahem’ snort of introduction as I climb the library steps to reach the copy of ‘Morocca Around Da Clocka’- a 1970s fusion cookery tome which looks like it has been barely touched over the years and for very good reason, no doubt.

‘Oh my sainted Aunt Matilda!’ I gasp, glancing down and seeing the gnu for the first time.

‘Apologies,’ says the gnu, ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

I climb down the ladder, all thoughts of a North African/Italian supper dish for that evening gone from my head. ‘You’re a gnu,’ I say.

‘I am,’ says the gnu, rising to his feet. ‘Hugh. Pleased to meet you. You must be the Lady of the Manor.’

I shake the proffered hoof. ‘Hugh Gnu?’ I say.

‘At your service,’ says Hugh Gnu. ‘I am ready for my role. Mrs Slocombe called last week to say there would be a part for me in your traditional Christmas Story this year and advised that there would be casting today. I heard a bit of a fracas in the dining room as I passed by and I don’t really cope well with noise so I thought I would seek comfort in the library here until the atmosphere quietened.’

‘Did she now?’ I say. ‘Did you now?’ I say. ‘Will you excuse me please, Hugh? Feel free to use the library for as long as you wish. I shall find Mrs Slocombe and wring her neck…’

‘Pardon me?’ says Hugh Gnu.

‘Did I say wring her neck?’ I say. ‘I’m sorry, I meant, tell her you’ve arrived.’

Hugh Gnu nods. He settles back in his chair and I exit the library stage left, pursued by an cloud of annoyance.

I find Mrs Slocombe in the kitchen. Inspired by the breakfast meeting pastries she has decided to make some kanelsnegle (cinnamon rolls) and Æbleskiver (pancake balls) which we don’t have very often because for some reason beyond my comprehension, the word ‘balls’ causes hysterical laughter amongst the hens. She did toy with making fastelavnsboller but they are more a February thing and it is only December so would be inappropriate.

‘Mrs Slocombe,’ I say with what I hope to be a no-nonsense brisk tone, ‘there is a gnu in the library. He mentioned your name.’

‘Hugh?’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘Hugh Gnu is here?’ She immediately becomes ten times more animated than the mention of  Æbleskiver will ever make her, flings off her apron and rushes from the kitchen in a cloud of flour and icing sugar, patting and smoothing her feathers as she goes.

I survey the state of the kitchen. ‘More mess for me to clear up,’ I mutter, rolling up my sleeves and cracking on.

Mrs Miggins soon discovers me in the middle of a cleaning frenzy and she can tell I am piqued.

‘You’re piqued, aren’t you?’ she says, placing a pair of vertiginous and very sparkly red stilettoes on the table.

‘Shoes OFF the table!’ I shout. ‘There’s enough misfortune around here already, thank you!’

Miggins arches an eyebrow at me. ‘They aren’t new shoes,’ she says. ‘In fact, they are vintage. These shoes,’ she continues, jabbing at them with her wing, ‘have done a lot of dancing. And backwards dancing at that. They are enchanted shoes. Anyway, why are you being all narky and superstitious?’

I throw a tea towel on the table which is unfortunate as it is still wrapped around my favourite mug which immediately shatters. ‘Mrs Slocombe has, without thinking to ask me first, offered a part in the Christmas Story to a friend of hers…’

‘Aaah,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Hugh Gnu.’

‘You know about Hugh Gnu?’ I say.

‘Yes,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘He is a very fine gnu, is Hugh. He and Mrs Slocombe go way back.’

I know that I am going to have to listen to the inevitable story so I don’t even bother protesting. ‘Go on,’ I say, sinking wearily into a chair.

‘They were a musical hall act,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Back in the good old days of variety performance. You are aware of the tradition of the pantomime cow, I suppose?’

‘One at the front end, the other the back?’ I say.

‘That’s the badger!’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Well, Mrs S and Hugh Gnu were a pantomime dog!’

I open my mouth in disbelief. I think I know where this is going. The look on my face is misinterpreted by Mrs Miggins as one of surprise. ‘I know!’ she says. ‘You had to see it to believe it, but it was really very good. Tap dancing, singing, VERY realistic costume…’

‘And the name of this pantomime dog?’ I say, just wanting the whole episode to be over.

‘Toto,’ says Mrs Miggins.