Mother and Father appeared but only reluctantly. Sitting at opposite ends of the sitting room to avoid any small talk with each other, they were content simply to glare at me in unison. I have often wondered how they became a couple in the first place since the only thing they have in common is a shared dislike for Donald (which, given that they are old and therefore defective in both sight and hearing, often mistakenly manifests itself as hostility to me). Miss Bobbins was literally bouncing up and down in her chair while Wicks and Grantham were attempting to move their seats closer together as they were both obviously feeling a chill. Drafts are the price one has to pay for living in a house which has been valued at more than the entire worth of the rest of Bendaton combined <g>.

“I have called you here today to present you with various gifts of significant value” I began.

“Woooooooooooooooooooooo” cried Miss Bobbins. If I could’ve harnessed the energy she was expending in her bouncing then I could’ve powered Ian Devine’s pie oven for a month <g>

“Hurry up, boy” growled Father. “I saw some carol singers wandering the streets and I want to throw lumps of coal at them.”

“Father – since you have pressing matters I will present you with your gift first.” I handed him the computer disc and a print out from Nigel Gusset’s computer.

“My own font?” he gasped. “You have compiled a font for me? I don’t know what to say…”

“Say “I am very pleased with Dennis Brent’s Christmas gift” would be appreciated” I told him.

“I am very pleased…” he began before he collapsed back in his chair.

“I think the shock has killed him” joked Wicks.

“Actually I think it has” replied Grantham.

“Someone send for an ambulance” I said quickly, keen that this distraction shouldn’t get in the way of my urgent business.

“Ignore him” said Mother, “he’s had thirty seven heart attacks – another one won’t do any damage.”

“But he’s dead” replied Grantham.

“Nonsense” said Mother. “Watch this.” She cleared her throat. “Some French people have moved in to Syphilis Cottage” she called.

“WHAT????” bellowed Father from just before the grave. “I’ll soon put a stop to this” and he stomped out.

“One picks these things up after years of unhappy marriage” she bemoaned.

“Right – distractions over with – next up is Grantham.” I handed him the book.

“You are giving me my own book. I don’t call that a valuable gift” he grumbled.

“Look inside” I grinned.

“GOOD GOD” he squealed. “Is it genuine?”

“It is” and I showed him the video cassette recording of Mr Hartnell.

“I could kiss you, Dennis Brent” he said.

“I would call the police” I warned.

“Sensibly observed” replied a more stable Grantham. “I let the occasion disturb me for a moment.”

“And for Wicks I have this amusing photograph from the Miss Firkinside Pageant.”

“Oh Dennis Brent” sobbed Wicks. “It’s beautiful…ly comic. Beautifully comic.”

“Richly comic” I added.

“A convention calibre image” added Ian Devine.

We sat round and roared for a moment at the pantomimic picture while Wicks and Grantham beamed at each other in a moment of what I can only assume was shared embarrassment.

“Where is my gift?” shouted Ian Devine once the amusement of the moment had worn off. “I demand to have a high quality gratuity.”

“Here you are” I said, passing him the cassette.

“A video cassette, Dennis Brent? A forty nine pence video cassette? I fear I shall have to scream and scream until I make myself sick.”

“Read the label, Ian Devine” I said with a warm smile.

“Can it be? I couldn’t be, could it? Or could it? Is it? Can it be? Or is it not? Is it?”

“You are gibbering, Ian Devine” I scoffed. “If you mean is it what you think it is then if you think it is what I think you think it is then it is what you think it is.”

“Dennis Brent – you are the apple pie of best friends” he blubbed.

“Compliment accepted, Ian Devine.”

“This is all very undignified” said Donald Brent. “We respectable mediahistorians don’t behave in such a manner. We discuss intriguing specialist subjects. We do not sit around and act like fifteen year old girls.”

“This is your gift, Donald Brent.” I handed him the discretely wrapped parcel from the open minded Mr Jones. Luckily he uses sensible string and high quality brown paper so the man who stole my satchel was unable to do significant damage.

“Dennis Brent!” gasped Donald as he took the leather hood from its packaging.

“It has a zip over the mouth to stop her from eating your books.”

“It’s superb” he enthused. “Carrie will love it – she’s a very open minded caribou.”

“And now for the ladies. Miss Bobbins, as requested I have two tablets of “jiggle” purchased from Dodgy Barry.”

“Wooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo” she squealed as she snatched the pills from my hand, swallowing one instantly and putting the other one in her b-r-a for safe keeping. “I could kiss you, Dennis Brent” she said in a more sensible tone. “And I will since it is Christmas” and she gave me a p-e-c-k on the c-h-e-e-k for my troubles.

“I can’t wait to see how you’re getting out of the last problem” sneered Mr Grade as it came time to make Mother’s wish come true.

“Mother – you requested that you never age.”

“Yes, Clarence. I trust you took my hint and purchased a large tub of my preferred moisturising cream with added monkey glands.”

“Um…” I stammered, caught out by the apparent hidden message in her original request. “…yes” I lied. “It’s this way” and I took her over to an alcove. “The cream is in this special refrigerator to keep it fresh.”

“Sensible boy” she said. I wiped away a tear as it was the nicest thing she’d ever said to me. She unknowingly clambered into my cryogenic unit and I closed the door. Within ten seconds my mother was frozen solid. Never to age so much as a single day.

“Mother had to go – her cat telephoned” I explained when I got back to the party.

“It seems like you did it after all” said Mr Grade. “Damn you. Everyone got what they wanted. Except me. I wanted to blow your house up. Ah well – we set a timer going when we planted the bomb. It’ll go boom at midnight. Happy Christmas Mr Brent.”

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