Christmas Story

Ploggers, I have been absent, but I have returned. "What have you been doing?" you ask. Lots. Lots and lots and lots. Four choir concerts, three work dos, two turtle doves and one good friend to stay the weekend.

However, the Christmas spirit is in the air, there is snow on the ground and it is mere days until Father Christmas loads up his improbable method of transport with presents. Huddle close then, Ploggers, for I have a Christmassy tale to tell. It is a tale so special that Mrs Nunn threatened to visit violence upon me if I were to retell it, as she fears embarrassing the people in question. However, two years have passed since this time and I am hoping she has a) forgotten or b) will be overcome by the Christmas spirit and forget her threats of beating and instead buy me extra presents. More than my brother anyway.

A number of years ago, as is the tradition at Yuletide, my family and I attended the local church for a Midnight Mass service.

"Church, Laura?" I hear you say. "But you are a confirmed atheist!"

And you would be right. But everyone loves a good Christmas carol, so Midnight Mass it is each year to sing carols and giggle at the prayer where you're supposed to say you're unworthy to gather crumbs from under the table.

The vicar was apparently new and a bit nervous. The sermon started. I hate sermons. Even as a child in the church choir (my parents were trying to get me into a local Catholic school; I'm not sure how they thought singing in a Protestant church choir was going to help. It didn't.), I used to take a book to read, much to the disgust of most of my fellow choristers, who quite rightly surmised that I was not heaven-bound, even at the age of 10. So yes, I hate sermons. And I was beginning to wish I'd brought along my new Nintendo DS, but thought this might be even less acceptable for a 28 year-old than it was for a 10 year-old. So I twiddled my thumbs instead.

My old English teacher from my high school sat to my right. Mr Nunn sat to my left.

The sermon was patronising and pants:

"Once upon a time there was a residential centre for people with special needs. No-one was quite perfect - whatever perfect means. Gary lost his temper often. Sarah would scream if anybody used her mug and Daniel hated having his hair touched. One day they all went out on a lovely trip. Everything was going really well until Sarah accidentally touched Daniel's hair. He snatched her mug from her and threw it on the floor and she screamed. Gary started trying to punch the bus driver."

I wondered where this was going.

"Then suddenly, they came upon a church. 'Can we go in?' pleaded Sarah. In they all went. It was nearly Christmas, and the Christmas tree in the church left all three of them speechless. A hushed quiet came over the group. Near the altar stood a lady holding a baby. Gary bounded up to the woman, limping and twitching slightly, like he always did. 'Can I hold your baby?' Gary asked."

The vicar's voice went quiet and meaningful at this point.

"The lady looked at Gary. And she passed her baby to Gary. And Gary took the baby, and was holding him. Then Gary..."

(pause for meaning)

"Then Gary... lifted the baby up, and killed him. KISSED him. Sorry. KISSED."

I was helpless with laughter. My English teacher leaned over from the right and whispered, "Well, I didn't see that coming."

Mr Nunn leaned over and said, "I thought the slaughter of the innocents came later?"

We all shook with laughter for the next half an hour. Best. Sermon. Ever.