Day 24 - Christmas Eve. We Have Arrived!

Home. What does it mean to you? Is it the physical place where you live, where you can shut the door against the world and be surrounded by your favourite things like bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens? Or is it the place you grew up, maybe where your parents still live? Perhaps ‘home’ is people? Family and friends who care for you, make you laugh, look out for you, defend you, listen to you, share themselves, become part of who you are? Or is home more of a spiritual thing? Like when you are wholly absorbed in a favourite past-time, for example gardening, or sewing, or writing, and just taking part in that activity makes you ‘feel at home.’ Perhaps you have visited a different part of the world and immediately felt like you have ‘come home.’ Perhaps the concept of home is more a feeling of calm and comfort than a physical building? Perhaps you are really lucky and home, for you, is a marrying together of all these things. 

Jane Austen, the author and clever observer of human nature and relationships, said, ‘There is nothing like staying at home for real comfort.’ And she is right, isn’t she, Dorothy Miggins?

‘I’ll say,’ says Dorothy Miggins, who has just this minute been brave enough to open her eyes and is now standing in the back garden of her home at Much Malarkey Manor on the Three Counties Border. She drops Toto onto the grass because her wings have gone numb, and she inhales a huge breath of familiar countryside air. (Thankfully, it is not the Season of Muck Spreading.)

From where she has arrived by whatever magic brought her back, she can see the sheep in the surrounding fields. She can see the outlines of the now bare-of-leaf trees silhouetted against the late afternoon sky. She can see smoke rising from the chimney of Much Malarkey Manor which, despite being wrenched from the ground and carried away in a cyclone, looks remarkably unchanged – not a brick, nor a door, nor a window out of place. Dorothy Miggins is wondering if she has imagined everything, that maybe she went up the garden for some reason, fell over and knocked herself out in a freak accident with the handle of a rogue wheelbarrow, and she had just come to.

But then she looks down and on her feet, instead of the usual wellies she wears up the garden this time of year because of all the mud and mire, there are the ruby slippers.

‘Gosh,’ she whispers.

Toto is galloping towards the porch of the Manor. Dorothy Miggins follows and there, on the swing are Aunty Em Bennet and Uncle Tootsie Hoffman. They are peeling sprouts. Dorothy Miggins tries not to sigh with annoyance. It is Christmas Day tomorrow but she won’t let a few rock hard sprouts spoil it. She has come to realise there are far more important things to think about.

‘Aunty Em! Uncle Tootsie!’ she shouts, flinging wide her wings and hugging them.

‘There you are!’ says Aunty Em Bennet. ‘We’ve been waiting for you to come home so you can finish decorating the Christmas tree with Gonzo the Fairy.’

‘Yes,’ says Uncle Toostie Hoffman. ‘We were worried about you after you ran off after Toto, but you’ve found him, I see. Didn’t run very far, then?’

‘How long have I been gone?’ says Dorothy Miggins.

Uncle Tootsie Hoffman looks at his pocket watch. ‘Oooh, about an hour,’ he says. ‘I was just thinking about getting the car out and coming to look for you.’

Weird, thinks Dorothy Miggins to herself. But no matter – she and Toto are safely home now, and that is all that matters.

The End…

…Or is it?

Of course it’s not! We need a wrap party! This is an event that happens after the shooting of a film is complete and the whole cast and production team get together and have a jolly good knees up to celebrate. And although this story wasn’t a film, it was based on a film and for that reason – roll out the barrel and cheesy balls! Ah, cheesy balls…remember those? Crunchy round things covered in dust and tasting approximately of some manky rank cheese. Essential Christmas Fayre. Well, back in the 1970s, anyway.

Mrs Miggins is very relieved to remove her Greta plaits because they have been pulling hard on her feathers and, she thinks, have made her look more scowly and bad-tempered than usual.

‘Well,’ she says, slipping into her favourite dungarees and vowing to NEVER wear gingham EVER again, ‘we made it. Another Much Malarkey Manor Christmas Story completed.’

‘Yes,’ says Hugh Gnu, grateful to be free from the stuffy and a bit niffy Toto costume. ‘Thank you for allowing me to be part of your mad little December world this year. It’s been…interesting.’

In the corner of the dressing room Mrs Slocombe is performing a series of exercises she has developed herself which are a combination of Pilates and Qi-Gong. She calls it Qipong-Latte because she likes to end with a cup of coffee.

‘I bet you’ve enjoyed working with Mrs Slocombe again,’ says Mrs Miggins.

‘I have,’ agrees Hugh Gnu. ‘Maybe we should go back out on the variety circuit again. What do you think, Betty?’

‘Absolutely not,’ says Betty Slocombe. ‘It’s going to take me a month to sort out my back after this performance.’

Tango Pete is changing into something more sartorially elegant than his scarecrow outfit, namely turquoise velour flares and flame orange samba shirt, ruffles and all. ‘I’ve enjoyed it,’ he says. ‘Made me step out of my character comfort zone for a change.’ Bambino Bobble Wilson agrees although, to be honest, he has remained firmly within his character comfort zone, having played a large, sometimes idiotic cat creature with hyper-sensitivity and mild bullying issues.  

‘I do love a party,’ sighs Mrs Pumphrey, who has decided to stay in her Good Witch of the North costume because it is so glamorous and lush. ‘Where’s Ptolemy Pheasant? He’s promised me the first dance.’

‘Here I am, you delightful creature,’ says Ptolemy Pheasant, who, now unencumbered by his Tin Man costume needs a definite eye keeping on him and his wandering wings. ‘Come on, dearest Gloria – let’s get this party started!’ And off the two gallop, giggling like teenagers. I am jolly glad I confiscated his chopper, that’s all I can say.

Flora Bijou Mybug, who has stunned everyone this year with her excellent portrayal of Bob Frapples, King of the Flying Monkeys, is now demonstrating her hitherto unknown skills as a disc jockey and is pumpin’ up da volume in the ballroom, playing her themed set of songs containing the word ‘cat’. Like, ‘What’s New, Pussycat?’ ‘Love Cats’ ‘Stray Cat Strut’ ‘Cool For Cats’ and anything by Kerry Katona. Magnus von Tasselltussell has requested the song by Mud called, ‘The Cat Crept In The Crypt, Crapped and Crept Out Again’ but Flora Bijou Mybug is pretty certain he’s got the title wrong. Mrs Poo, who has absolutely revelled in her role as Wicked Witch of the West has also stayed in costume having dried it off next to the roaring fire in the drawing room.

‘I’m disappointed she melted,’ she says. ‘Personally, I think she should have triumphed, evil over good. That’d make a change, wouldn’t it?’

‘It would,’ I agree. ‘It would certainly subvert the tradition of Christmas being the season of love, peace and goodwill to all. But it wouldn’t be right or natural. Good always has to triumph over evil in order that humanity can live in hope for the future.’

‘Fair do,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘Now, let me at the Jager bombs.’ A Jager bomb, for those who don’t know, me included, is a shot cocktail made from Red Bull and Jagermeister. It is supposed to taste like cough syrup and makes you run mad with its heady mix of caffeine and alcohol. Sounds disgusting.

And so everyone is changed into their party gear and soon the ballroom at Much Malarkey Manor is a-rockin’ and a-rollin, and everyone is having a lovely time at the Christmas Eve Wrap Party.

I leave them to it. Closing the door of the ballroom I make my way to the quiet, calm space of the library. Someone, probably Mrs Miggins because she knows me best of all, has been in ahead and lit some candles and the fire. The big comfy reading chair has been pulled up to the fire hearth and draped in woolly rugs. A little table has been set to one side, and on top of the table is a large pot of tea keeping warm under its cosy, and a slice of home-made fruit cake. There’s a couple of magazines, too, and copies of ‘Cold Comfort Farm’ and ‘Mapp and Lucia’, both of which I’ve been meaning to re-read for a while now. A-top the reading pile is a parcel wrapped in brown parcel paper and tied with a red ribbon. I pick it up and read the gift tag.

‘May you have warmth in your igloo, oil in your lamp, and peace in your heart.’

 I open the parcel. Inside is a beautiful notebook, bound in fabric. On the front it says, ‘Keep Writing.’

It’s been a tough year, dear reader. If you’ve had a tough year, too, I send you a hug and hope this story has made a smile or two for you. And I hope you have lovely Christmas Day tomorrow, however you choose to spend it. And finally, I send a heartfelt wish for 2020 to be kind. To us all.