Doing the Maths

 

And they are off! As predicted at the start of this sorry tale, Father Christmas’s sleigh has travelled a circuitous route and, as the gang of intrepid travellers head outside, it lands with a ‘THUNK!’ on the roof of the Manor. One of the reindeer’s hooves displaces a roof tile, which Father Christmas neatly sidesteps as it crashes to the ground.

‘One bump on the head is quite enough for this evening,’ he jokes. ‘Ahahahahahahaha!’

‘I’ve plenty of bread sauce left,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘Just in case.’

Father Christmas claps his hands and sings a chorus of ‘Jingle Bells’ which summons the reindeer from the rooftop, and they land with a soft thud in the ever-deepening snow.

‘Climb aboard!’ calls Father Christmas. ‘Make yourselves comfy and please use the seatbelts provided. We are going to be travelling at a considerable speed.’

Missus’ Miggins, Poo, Slocombe and Pumphrey, Ptolemy Pheasant and Kenneth the Phantomime climb into the sleigh and fasten themselves in, tucking woolly blankets snugly around their knees, which is quite tricky when you are bird. Father Christmas climbs into the driving seat. He pulls on his driving gloves and a pair of goggles.

‘Here we go!’ he shouts, and with a flick of the reins and a ‘whoosh’ they shoot off and upwards, upwards into the night sky.

Meanwhile, at the wishing well in the very centre of England, I am sitting with Bambino Bobble Wilson playing canasta. According to my watch, it’s been twenty minutes since the present sack and red button gadget disappeared into the depths of the wishing well.

‘What if they don’t come back?’ I say.

‘They will,’ says Bambino. ‘Have faith. Magic never lets you down, not if you have faith. And a manifestation mood board. That might help. Perhaps we should make a manifestation mood board…’

And just as I am wondering where in the middle of a field we are going to find images of magic, scissors and a glue stick, there is a rumbling beneath the earth where we are sat, and then a flash of lightning as the present sack and the red button gadget ricochet from the top of the well. They land next to Bambino which gives him the excuse to cut short the game of canasta he is currently losing.

‘Look,’ he says, ‘there’s a note attached.’

And sure enough, tied to the top of the sack, is an envelope. It is addressed to ‘B B Wilson, Esq. Middle of a Field, Middle of England, England.’

‘I know that writing,’ says Bambino. ‘It’s from my second cousin twice removed on my mother’s side. He was deported to Australia for forging bank notes, you know. An entrepreneurial sort of chap.’

 And he opens the envelope and reads aloud –

‘G’day Bambino, how are you, me old cobber?

Thanks for the present sack. Only too pleased to help out. See it as a return of the favour you did for me, the time when I was ambushed by that gang of southern cassowaries and you happened to be visiting with a batch of your hand crafted cat fur cummerbunds and cravats. Who knew that a cat fur cummerbund would be so effective in wrangling a 60kg bird with daggers for toes to the ground, eh? I’ve still got one hanging from my tool belt, just in case. A cummerbund, not a cassowary – hahaha!

Merry Crimbo to you and yours, mate!

Your second cousin twice removed on your father’s side, Forgery Fred Frankly.’

‘You live a very serendipitous life,’ I say, tucking the present sack and red button gadget safely back into the bicycle basket.

‘It’s not what you know, it’s who you know,’ says Bambino, who is spreading a map of the world flat on the ground and using a lime green highlighter pen to scribble out the areas to where he believes presents have been delivered.

‘Not bad,’ he says, surveying the map. ‘I reckon we’re around three quarters of the way completed with our mission.’

‘And it’s only 3.17 a.m,’ I say, checking my watch and feeling a little smug with how well it’s all turning out.

Bambino is now in deep thought, chewing the end of the green highlighter pen.

‘I wonder,’ he says, ‘if we find a way to levitate far enough above the ground whether we can just hover and let the earth rotate beneath us, pressing the red button gadget at regular intervals as countries yet undelivered pass beneath us…’

At this point in proceedings I am beginning to think that anything is possible, no matter how far-fetched it seems to be.

‘Of course,’ Bambino continues, ‘we would need to do some very precise calculations with no margin of error factored in whatsoever…how’s your Maths?’

‘I’ve got an ‘O’ level,’ I say. ‘But that was a miracle in itself. I have no interest in Maths. I know enough to get me through the basic housekeeping and accounting needs in life. Other than that, it’s all meaningless drivel to me.’

‘Good,’ says Bambino. ‘That’s what we need. Basic, common sense and useable Maths. None of that data driven modelling stuff.’

I sigh. Time is REALLY going to drag if I’m forced to do Maths. Anyway, I sit next to Bambino and he flips over the map to use the blank side for developing his equation.

And just as he reaches the point of 4x + m = an omelette (but unsuitable for vegetarians – think about it….) the sky above us lights up and the sound of jingle bells and ‘ho-ho-ho-ing’ rings through the night air.

I glance upwards. Any distraction from Maths is a good distraction.

‘Bambino! Look!’ I cry. ‘It’s the hens! And Father Christmas! He isn’t dead after all!!’

Bambino rolls his eyes, like this is hardly news to him.

I haven’t felt this relieved since I walked away from teaching for good.