About Father Christmas


(Credit: FionnKidney on Flickr)

I sat on the hill and watched the house of Mr and Mrs Clem as the world drained of colour. Comfortable in my large down jacket, I waited as the temperature dropped and Mrs Clem read a goodnight story to the children in their upstairs bedroom. I had overheard Mr and Mrs Clem tell their twins about Father Christmas in the playground that day, and I imagined them asking all sorts of questions about him every time Mrs Clem stopped for breath.

When Mr Clem went upstairs to say goodnight, I slipped down the hill, jumped their garden fence and snuck into the backyard, my surprise tucked snugly under one arm. The frosty grass crunched under my boots, but there was no snow to steal my footprints.

I took the ladder from their shed, they always leave that shed unlocked, and used it to climb onto the roof. I crawled slowly up the gentle incline. When I reached the chimney, I straddled the roof and pulled the duct tape out of my pocket. I secured my surprise to the chimney. The black boot was excellent at holding it all together. I picked out the fuse and threw it down the roof.

When I was securely back on the ladder, I lit the fuse, then hurried down and then up the hill to watch the fireworks.

The explosion was not as loud as I had imagined it would be, but it was loud enough. Mr and Mrs Clem rushed out the front door as the red glow faded, and just as the twins appeared in the doorway a smoking black boot, half a candy cane and a burning Christmas hat landed in their front yard. I thought I could even smell the cinnamon and cloves, which I had put in the hat, and I smiled.

Now Mr and Mrs Clem would have to tell their children the truth.

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