great moments in poignancy

Doctor Barn arrived at the chateau this afternoon.

With great care he arranged small heaps of presents under the tree in the hall.

He mumbled something along the lines of: "Not to be opened till Christmas day."

I watched him wryly.

I had the oddest feeling that as soon as he left the house any presents marked James would be ripped open immediately.

So it proved.

Spying my name on a package I ripped it open.

The brother had been gone a full thirty seconds.

I'd managed to resist that long.

A new record.

The package contained a bunch of objectionably violent Clint Eastwood videos.

I searched through the videos.

The Good The Bad And The Ugly.

A Fistful Of Dollars.

For A Few Dollars More.

Hang Em High.

That meant three objectionably violent films with a certain artistic merit, and one useless objectionably violent film with no merit at all.

I checked the interior of the video case.

Far more objectionable than anything the movies might contain themselves, was the fact that no secret wodge of cash had been placed in the case.

I checked again just to be sure.

But no.

Nothing.

Could the brother be turning his back on one of the great Christmas traditions?

I turned back towards the tree.

My features were dark.

Another package with my name on it called for attention.

Ah.

Here we go.

I ripped it open.

A book by someone called Bill Bryson about someone called Shakespeare.

Never heard of either of em.

I thumbed through the pages.

Several times.

On the final time, my thumbing was a tad frantic.

I do believe I cried: "No, no, no."

No cash fell forth.

Suffering sagotash.

This is shaping up to be a bad Christmas.

But lo!

There's a third package with my name on it.

A large one.

I rip off the wrapping.

It's a coat.

I check the sleeves and interior.

No money has been placed there.

Woe is me.

Worst Christmas ever if there's no moulah from Daktari.

Somewhat grudgingly, I try on the coat for size.

Blooming coats.

Who needs em.

Paddy Pup busies himself ripping the already ripped wrapping paper to shreds.

The ghost of Mobies Past appears beside the tree singing:

"Oooh Lordy, troubles with God,

Oooh Lordy, troubles with God,

Don't nobody know my troubles with God.

Don't nobody know my troubles with God."

It was quite poignant.

But I prefer the version with the Johnston Press in it.

I put my hands in the coat pockets.

Oh Lordy.

It's a Christmas miracle.

Bingo.

My fingers feel a snug nest of dollar bills.

Hurrah for Doctor Barn.

Hurrah, I say.

Christmas is saved.