“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

We mill around outside Short Tony’s, several layers of alcohol insulating us against the cold night. The plan: to march on Big A’s house and sing Christmas Carols at him until his icy Scrooge-like heart melts in the warmth of a festive onslaught.

Some singing children have been engaged to help us.

We tiptoe across the road, making load ‘shhh!’ noises. The LTLP carries a reindeer soft toy with some sleigh bells attached, and a candle. I have a mandolin slung round my neck. Short Tony and Mrs Short Tony carry torches. (The electrical, not the flaming kind).

The children lag behind unenthusiastically. I don’t know what’s the matter with them. When I was their age I would have been really excited to have been got out of bed and sent out into the bitter cold with my mum’s and dad’s friends in order to play a weak practical joke on the neighbours. It is Playstation that I blame.

We scrunch up the gravel path (“Shhh!!!”, “Shhhhh!!!”) and assemble around the front door, roughly pushing the kids to the front and ordering them to look waif-like. The house is occupied but the interior lights are dim behind thick drapes. We have arranged to perform ‘Jingle Bells’ (chorus only) being that we all know the words, and there are only three chords.

[Whispers] “A one, two, a one two three four!”

“Jinglebellsjinglebellsjingleallthewayohwhatfunitistorideonaonehorseopensleigh, oh!”

The LTLP shakes her reindeer enthusiastically.

We tail off weakly at the end, not knowing what to do next. There is no sign of movement, although other lights in the street seem to have come on in the meantime.

A warning voice booms in my head. “LOOK AT YOU!!! THIS IS WHAT YOU’VE MADE OF YOUR LIFE, THIS IS!!!” I tell it to go away.

There is nothing quite so pitiful as a group of previously-confident people realising that they look ridiculous. The village flashmob hovers uncertainly. Finally, we agree to give it another go. Short Tony bangs angrily on the front window. We are both cross that the occupants are ruining it for everyone.

“Jinglebellsjinglebellsjingleallthewayohwhatfunitistoride…”

The front door opens, and Mr & Mrs Big A gaze out in some incredulity. The song falls to pieces around our feet. Lyrics catch on the tumbleweed and are carried down the street.

“Er… would you like to come in?” they offer, eventually.

We make our excuses and leave.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

We mill around outside Short Tony’s, several layers of alcohol insulating us against the cold night. The plan: to march on Big A’s house and sing Christmas Carols at him until his icy Scrooge-like heart melts in the warmth of a festive onslaught.

Some singing children have been engaged to help us.

We tiptoe across the road, making load ‘shhh!’ noises. The LTLP carries a reindeer soft toy with some sleigh bells attached, and a candle. I have a mandolin slung round my neck. Short Tony and Mrs Short Tony carry torches. (The electrical, not the flaming kind).

The children lag behind unenthusiastically. I don’t know what’s the matter with them. When I was their age I would have been really excited to have been got out of bed and sent out into the bitter cold with my mum’s and dad’s friends in order to play a weak practical joke on the neighbours. It is Playstation that I blame.

We scrunch up the gravel path (“Shhh!!!”, “Shhhhh!!!”) and assemble around the front door, roughly pushing the kids to the front and ordering them to look waif-like. The house is occupied but the interior lights are dim behind thick drapes. We have arranged to perform ‘Jingle Bells’ (chorus only) being that we all know the words, and there are only three chords.

[Whispers] “A one, two, a one two three four!”

“Jinglebellsjinglebellsjingleallthewayohwhatfunitistorideonaonehorseopensleigh, oh!”

The LTLP shakes her reindeer enthusiastically.

We tail off weakly at the end, not knowing what to do next. There is no sign of movement, although other lights in the street seem to have come on in the meantime.

A warning voice booms in my head. “LOOK AT YOU!!! THIS IS WHAT YOU’VE MADE OF YOUR LIFE, THIS IS!!!” I tell it to go away.

There is nothing quite so pitiful as a group of previously-confident people realising that they look ridiculous. The village flashmob hovers uncertainly. Finally, we agree to give it another go. Short Tony bangs angrily on the front window. We are both cross that the occupants are ruining it for everyone.

“Jinglebellsjinglebellsjingleallthewayohwhatfunitistoride…”

The front door opens, and Mr & Mrs Big A gaze out in some incredulity. The song falls to pieces around our feet. Lyrics catch on the tumbleweed and are carried down the street.

“Er… would you like to come in?” they offer, eventually.

We make our excuses and leave.

Escalation.

“The fact is, he’s just too bloody stingy to pay for the electricity.”

Short Tony gesticulates with exasperation towards Big A’s dark and forlorn house. Aside from him alone, our corner of the village is ablaze with luminescence, like a Pink Floyd concert without the extra percussionist who wasn’t big, wasn’t clever and spoilt it for the rest of us. Or a pig with huge testicles, or a fat middle-class guitar player. Or a video of lots of commuters walking about, or a gigantic glitter ball that opens during the interminably overrated solo at the end of ‘Comfortably Numb’.

I make a note to add ‘Analogies – for Dummies!’ to my Christmas present list.

He presses a leaflet into my hand. It is from ‘Stop Miserable Ebenezerish Gits’ (SMEG). Strapline: ‘Are you TOO TIGHT to LIGHT?’

‘I spent ages thinking of that,’ he confesses.

A threatening note through the door!!!

“STOP.

For further details contact Big A on [phone number].”

Everybody likes the local doctor.

He is amiable, sympathetic, and doesn’t start off each consultation with the standard three questions they teach you at medical school. (Do you drink/do you smoke/do you do anything else at all in your life that might be remotely enjoyable).

He has also been very mature and sympathetic about my arse problem, although I’m sure he has a bit of a laugh about it down at the rugby club with his mates, which is fair enough and a perk of the job. I’m sure he also regrets his unwitting choice of words when I first went to see him about that years ago – viz, ‘let’s see if we can get to the bottom of this’.

Anyway, the problem is that I’ve started getting horrible, unbearable, nausea-inducing headaches. Last week I almost collapsed, in a dramatic fashion, which got me lots of sympathy but frankly is the sort of thing that I would Rather Not Happen.

I was concerned that I may have caught a brain tumour.

I go to the doctor’s, and tell him the symptoms.

“God, yes – me too,” he replies. “Bloody unpleasant, isn’t it?”

I’m a bit taken aback by this, but he explains that some special pills usually make it go away. He then asks me lots of questions, takes my blood pressure and examines me with his tricorder, although I am a bit disappointed that I he doesn’t ask me to wear a big metal helmet with wires and stuff on it in order to check my brainwaves.

The upshot is that I don’t have a brain tunour, but am getting migraines, possibly triggered by either food or sex.

I had no idea such a condition existed.

He advises me to keep a diary of everything I eat before an occurrence. “Oh – and I’d try shagging at least twice a day.”

I leave the surgery, a spring in my step.

Again.

We are next door, enjoying a glass of wine, skirting round the topic of the missing Christmas lights.

A lull in the conversation. The LTLP turns to me, sweetly.

“By the way,” she remarks. “I found some ladies’ glasses in a case beside the bed. Whose are they, please?”

I am greatly taken aback.

I am a rubbish liar. Fortunately on this occasion I have no need to lie, as I really haven’t got a clue whose glasses these are.

Unfortunately, in between me working this bit out and presenting the LTLP with a calm and authoritative denial of any wrongdoing, I allow myself to think quite how implausible whatever I say will sound.

Consequently I go very red, stammer and look shifty as I make weak protestations.

“I guess they might be the cleaner’s?” I reply.

Mentioning the cleaner never improves the situation between us.

“Perhaps they’re the Vegetable Delivery Lady’s?” offers Short Tony. He is the world’s biggest stirrer. I shall henceforth call him Short Tony the Wooden Spoon.

“I doubt they’re the Vegetable Delivery Lady’s,” I reply. “Besides, it was not the Vegetable Delivery Lady last week. It was a man. With a beard.”

I reflect that the man with a beard explanation was all very well, but that it would perhaps have been better to simply point out that the Vegetable Delivery Lady has never been up to my bedroom and removed her glasses. Why must I always over-elaborate???

“Search a bit harder,” suggests Short Tony the Wooden Spoon, highly unhelpfully. “You might find a discarded brassiere.”

“No,” I reply quickly. “She only ever leaves brassica.”

The room echoes with laughter at my clever little joke. When I have wiped the tears from my eyes I look round to find that in fact it was only me laughing and that it is just a very echoey room.

“Well?” asks the LTLP.

“I’m sure they were the cleaner’s,” I state, drawing the line under the subject and moving on, like Mr Blair does when there is nothing more to say about a topic ever in the world again.

The conversation is dropped. But the cleaner does not wear glasses. I am stumped.

Accused!!!

Again.

We are next door, enjoying a glass of wine, skirting round the topic of the missing Christmas lights.

A lull in the conversation. The LTLP turns to me, sweetly.

“By the way,” she remarks. “I found some ladies’ glasses in a case beside the bed. Whose are they, please?”

I am greatly taken aback.

I am a rubbish liar. Fortunately on this occasion I have no need to lie, as I really haven’t got a clue whose glasses these are.

Unfortunately, in between me working this bit out and presenting the LTLP with a calm and authoritative denial of any wrongdoing, I allow myself to think quite how implausible whatever I say will sound.

Consequently I go very red, stammer and look shifty as I make weak protestations.

“I guess they might be the cleaner’s?” I reply.

Mentioning the cleaner never improves the situation between us.

“Perhaps they’re the Vegetable Delivery Lady’s?” offers Short Tony. He is the world’s biggest stirrer. I shall henceforth call him Short Tony the Wooden Spoon.

“I doubt they’re the Vegetable Delivery Lady’s,” I reply. “Besides, it was not the Vegetable Delivery Lady last week. It was a man. With a beard.”

I reflect that the man with a beard explanation was all very well, but that it would perhaps have been better to simply point out that the Vegetable Delivery Lady has never been up to my bedroom and removed her glasses. Why must I always over-elaborate???

“Search a bit harder,” suggests Short Tony the Wooden Spoon, highly unhelpfully. “You might find a discarded brassiere.”

“No,” I reply quickly. “She only ever leaves brassica.”

The room echoes with laughter at my clever little joke. When I have wiped the tears from my eyes I look round to find that in fact it was only me laughing and that it is just a very echoey room.

“Well?” asks the LTLP.

“I’m sure they were the cleaner’s,” I state, drawing the line under the subject and moving on, like Mr Blair does when there is nothing more to say about a topic ever in the world again.

The conversation is dropped. But the cleaner does not wear glasses. I am stumped.