A Bit of Deja Vu, a Bit of a Second Chance

 

We – Mrs Miggins and I - are standing outside Much Malarkey Manor, which is beautifully bedecked in all its Christmas glory. Fairy lights, holly boughs, garlands of flamingo, that kind of thing. The night air is laced with frost, and woodsmoke buffets and twirls from the chimney stacks. All is calm, all is bright.

Except for the noise up on the roof which has brought us outside to investigate.

‘There is definitely someone up there,’ I say, peering into the darkness overhead. ‘Someone carrying a suspicious looking sack. A burglar!’

‘Possibly. But possibly not,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘It could be someone else,’ and she tips me a wink, suggesting the intruder could be Father Christmas. Either that, or she has something in her eye.

‘Ha!’ I say. ‘That old myth? That’s just for children, Mrs M. No, I bet it’s an opportunist thief using the guise of Father Christmas to go on a robbery spree. Well, he’s picked on the wrong house here,’ and I cast my eye around the garden for a suitable weapon with which to see off the evil criminal. My eye lands on a hefty garden gnome.

‘Aha!’ I say, picking it up and testing its weight in my hand. It’s light enough for me to employ my shot put skills, yet heavy enough to make a point if my aim is true. It’s also almost torpedo shaped, which will help with the aerodynamics of my throw.

‘Right,’ I say, taking a firm grip on my missile and setting a beady eye on my target. ‘This’ll teach the b****r to mount a burglary on Much Malarkey Manor and spoil our Christmas….’

But as I raise my gnome-laden hand and gird my loins for a hefty throw, Mrs Miggins places a gentle wing on my arm.

‘You might want to think again,’ she says, softly, and looks upwards again to where the intruder is.

And as I look again, more carefully this time, through the wise eyes of a wise hen, I notice a large, black fluffy blob of a cat waving cheerfully at me from what looks suspiciously like a sleigh, in front of which are eight reindeer, stamping and blowing, jingle bells jingling, and clouds of steamy breath curling from their nostrils.

‘Bambino Bobble Wilson?’ I say. ‘But I thought he was going to a Christmas party at ‘The Squeeze Inn.’

‘I think that might have been a smokescreen to put you off the real reason for his absence this evening,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘I knew he’d started a new job recently, and that he would be busy working Christmas Eve on a very important project. I think I’ve just realised what that job is.’

‘Assistant to Father Christmas?’ I say, lowering the gnome and dropping it on the ground.

‘It seems so,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Something to do with the invention of a new landing system operated by a red button gadget. He’s a clever chap, is our Bambino.’

‘Well I never!’ I say.

And Miggins and I stand and watch as Father Christmas and Bambino, heads together over a sack of presents and a small gadget with what looks like a red button glowing in its centre, linger on the roof of Much Malarkey Manor for exactly 3.2 seconds before jumping into the sleigh and taking off.

‘Quick as a flash!’ says Mrs Miggins.

‘He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle. And away they all flew like the down of a thistle,’ I whisper.

We are interrupted in our moment of wonderment by Mrs Pumphrey who is in the middle of decorating her first gingerbread house for the Christmas Eve party (there are parts enough for the construction of a small village of gingerbread houses) and requires some assistance with the gable ends of a row of terraced cottages. She’s not a natural cook, is Mrs Pumphrey. The closest she comes to making an evening meal is microwaving baked beans in a mug and scattering grated cheese on top. Sometimes she can make toast, but it’s a hit and miss affair.

‘Who was that?’ she asks, pointing a dripping with icing spoon at the small spark of light vanishing into the distance.

‘That,’ I say, ‘was a visit from a piece of Christmas magic.’

‘Oh good!’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘Now, I don’t suppose you can come and perform a piece of Christmas magic on my gingerbread houses can you? I’ve reached a point of sticky saturation and I still have to go and get dressed for the party, which is no mean feat in itself.’

And she turns and vanishes back into the Manor.

I turn to Mrs Miggins.

‘Are you feeling a sense of déjà vu?’ I say.

She nods.

‘I most certainly am,’ she says, and we head back to the warmth of the house. ‘But I do like a bit of déjà vu, don’t you? I see it as being able to have a second chance at putting something right that went a bit wrong first time around.’

I think I know what she is talking about although I can’t quite put my finger on how and why I’m feeling like I’ve been here in this situation before. Ah well, I think to myself, as I close the door behind me. Soon the party guests will be arriving for our traditional Much Malarkey Manor Christmas Eve party. It feels like it will be a good party, too.

As I pass the table in the hall, the telephone rings out. I pick up the receiver.

‘Hello?’ I say. ‘Much Malarkey Manor, the Lady of the House speaking.’

‘Good evening, madam,’ says a familiar voice, gravelly in pitch and sombre in tone. ‘I understand you are holding a Christmas party this evening…’

‘We certainly are,’ I say, trying to pinpoint why the voice sounds so familiar. ‘Who is this please?’

‘I am Inspector Spectre,’ says the voice. ‘And I would like to drop by, if I may. I have a few questions I want to ask regarding a recent crime in the area…’

I laugh, suddenly recognising the caller.

‘Oh, Kenneth the Phantomime, you are a hoot!’ I say. ‘Inspector Spectre indeed! You don’t need to make excuses to come to our party. You are very welcome to join us. The more the merrier, that’s what I say.’

There is a brief silence.

‘Well, thank goodness for that!’ says Kenneth the Phantomime, all pretence of severity lifting from his voice. ‘Someone told me it was a murder mystery fancy dress theme and I had this old police costume hanging around so thought I’d give it an airing.’

‘That doesn’t sound like you at all,’ I say. ‘I shall be most disappointed if you don’t arrive wearing at least 75% sequins and a feather boa to rival Mrs Pumphrey’s.’

‘I shall go and change immediately!’ says a very relieved Kenneth the Phantomime. ‘Although I like the Inspector’s cloak – very swishy – the trousers are terribly drab and not me at all.’

‘In all things, to your own self be true,’ I say. ‘Green sequin flares are the order of the day for this party, Kenneth. See you later!’

As I replace the telephone receiver in its cradle and head towards the kitchen where a light-hearted fracas appears to be occurring, I smile. Despite the harshness life can sometimes put us through, with a little bit of magic and a lot of faith, hope and love, I know everything will be all right.

 And there we are. The End. Almost 25000 words of exciting festive surrealism, my Christmas gift to you! Wishing all my lovely, resilient readers a very Merry Christmas and a Positive and Brave New Year!