Midnight to 01:00

The clock struck to signify midnight. I had been in bed for a sensible two and a quarter hours but something was playing on my mind. I was deeply worried that I had spent far too much on Christmas presents for my inner circle. The bill for father, mother, Donald Brent, Ian Devine, Wicks, Grantham and Felicity Bobbins had been over ten pounds – money that could easily have been put towards a video copy of the Invasion of the Dinosaurs so I could laugh at the proles with their black and white copy of episode one. I chuckled at the thought of twenty-five minutes of monochrome Pertwee and immediately admonished myself for being lax and forgetting that the episode actually runs 25 minutes and 29 seconds. Any fool knows that, middle of the night or no middle of the night.

It struck me (shortly after the clock struck itself <g>) that it was now officially Christmas Eve. Only one more day to go until Christmas Day and only two more days until the heavy spending season was over for another day. I felt moved by the occasion. So moved in fact that I got out of bed to go to the lavatory. I’m not a sentimental man but I am practical.

I was just finishing off my call of nature when I heard breaking glass from the ground floor of Brent Towers. Fearing for my body, my collection of highly desirable merchandise, my home entertainment system, my carpets, my satchel, my nearly full bottle of sherry and Ian Devine (in that order) I snuck downstairs to see who or what was amiss.

I felt rough men grab me. Was I still dreaming? Emphatically no. I had been most effectively kidnapped. The only questions were by whom and why?

“Mr Brent” said the first man, masked (obviously) and with an accent I couldn’t quite place. “That tree is pathetic.”

He was pointing to the nylon Christmas tree that I had purchased six years earlier from Bargainsave and took out every December the 23rd just to be civil.

“It is very nice” I said through what I assumed was a second man’s hand over my face.

“You must be the meanest man in all Britain” said the first man.

“Piffle – my father is even meaner than I am” I protested with merit. “I send quality gifts, he merely photocopies what people gave him last year and posts the sheet of A4 to you second class. Sometimes even third class which means I have to pay the postman before he’ll give it to me.”

“Is your father Wollaston Brent?”

“Yes he is.”

“Then rest assured – he’s on our list for next year.”

“List?”

“Let me be honest Mr Brent – we are the paramilitary wing of Santa Inc. It’s our job to make mean sods like you see the error of your ways. Or we blow up your house.”

“There is nothing wrong with my… blow up my house?” I gasped.

“We’ve planted a bomb somewhere in Brent Towers. At the stroke of midnight it will explode and your house will be rubble. Don’t even think of defusing it, Mr Brent, because we’ll know and we’ll detonate it manually.”

“Once a year?” I queried.

“Manually not annually” he snapped. My ears were still half a sleep. Speaking of my ears, the second man inserted something cold and metallic into my left ear at this point in the conversation.

“What on Earth…” I protested. I felt a little Pip and Jane Baker was justified under the circumstances.

“This earpiece means we can keep in constant contact with you. We can track your movements and make sure you’re doing what you have been told.”

“What must I do?” I hoped it wouldn’t involve being nice to proles or scraping old people at Mr Monkeyjuice’s old folks home.

“It’s very simple Mr Brent – you have to buy nice presents for your friends and family.”

“But I’ve already done so” I protected again.

“You haven’t – we’ve checked. Lance – what is Mr Brent’s present list at… erm… present?”

“Father – a pumice stone, mother – two £1 book tokens, Wicks – an unsold copy of your book ‘Doctor Who – The Colour Blue in All it’s Hues’, Grantham – a small bag of nuts, Ian Devine – a medium sized pasty, Felicity Bobbins – the free sanitary towel that came with last week’s Bendaton Bugle and Donald Brent has some straw from Elkie’s stall which you claim is rare and expensive tobacco for his pipe.”

“A pretty dire collection” said the first man.

“I was in a hurry. I have deadlines to meet. I wanted to save my money because of the impending pensions crisis. I have lost my cheque book. I gave everything to charity. I… I … I…”

“That’s three I’s in one breath – makes you sound a rather avaricious little twerp” said the first man. “Lance – show him the remote control detonator”

The second man held up what I instantly recognised as a gadget.

“Unless you buy nice presents for all eight of your friends and family, we’ll press this big red button and your entire collection will be blown into fragments and sent floating in space” explained Lance.

“Not quite” corrected the first man (name unknown or I would’ve written it in my sensible leather covered notebook). “But the gist is correct. Any questions?”

“Is this a practical joke? Is that really Ian Devine under a mask and wearing a very strong corset?”

“No.”

“Drat.”

“You have twenty four hours minus the forty eight minutes we’ve spent having this conversation and smashing some of your furniture to convince you that we really are nasty and violent thugs.”

“But it’s only 12:45” I said foolishly.

“Exactly” said the first man. They spent the next three minutes smashing some of my furniture to convince me that they really are nasty and violent thugs.

“See you at midnight” said an out of breath masked man. I was left on my own to have a really serious think.

I had a small glass of sherry, a long hard think and considered summoning the whole of Brent’s Seven.

“Don’t even think of telling anyone about this conversation” said the first man through my new earpiece, “or it’s BOOOOM”.

I looked at my sensible carriage clock on the mantelpiece. The hands ticked resolutely round. 12:59:57

12:59:58

12:59:59

01:00:00