“Mmmphhmumphwhassat?” mutters the LTLP from under the duvet.

“Mmmphhubhubhubrrrtextmessage,” I reply sleepily.

It is about half past eleven at night, and I have been asleep for almost two hours. I do not have late nights now, having a Toddler, and I sleep very lightly. The quiet ‘beep’ from downstairs has woken me up.

I turn over to resume sleep.

My mobile phone rings, the silence of the night amplifying the tiny sound that’s set to be the noise of a telephone ringing, as I am not a wanker. I listen to it for a couple of rings before deciding that it might be important, and I trudge off down the stairs to find out who it is. By the time that I find my phone, the ringing has stopped.

I carry the phone upstairs. There are two text messages, the most recent one being from the voicemail service. The earlier message is from Big A. The Snooker Club has won 4-1.

4-1!!! This is a bit unprecedented. I play for the worst snooker club in Britain, a club that did actually go a decade without winning a single match. If Roy Castle was still alive we would have been on ‘Record Breakers’ alongside some students who want to spend five weeks push dried peas round their garage with their noses. 4-1.

In a way, I am a bit sad about this. All the others have been practicing constantly and have got better, and I feel that something has been lost from the club. It is far more honorable to be really, really bad at something rather than just being average, which is why I do not understand all the current Eurovision stuff. Nevertheless I was quite happy to be first reserve for this match.

I check my voicemail message. It is from five drunk people in a car park, singing ‘Four One to the Snooker Club’ to the tune of ‘Go West’ by the Village People. The noise blares from the phone.

“What the hell’s that?”

“It’s five drunk people singing ‘Four One to the Snooker Club’,” I explain, climbing blearily back into bed. “To the tune of ‘Go West’ by the Village People.”

“Oh,” she replies.

We drift back off, and I practice some shots in my sleep.

I munch my meal.

Something subconsciously disturbs me, sneaking into the top of my vision as I stare at my bowl. I glance up quickly and throw my head back in alarm.

It is an Ood!!! Sat opposite me in the restaurant, staring with vacant yet deep Ood eyes across the table at me, its alien mind peering into my very soul, considering dispassionately whether to absorb my consciousness into the universal morass of Oodkind!!! My jaw drops open in frozen terror.

I blink. Oh. No. It is just the Toddler, eating noodles.

We finish our lunch with no more misunderstandings. Then later, when we have all returned from the Didoesque Hell of the post-Christmas sales, we discover that she has lost Boris the Dog.

Boris the Dog has been with the Toddler since day one – he has slept with her every single night for three years, he has been a playmate in good times, he has been something to clutch fiercely in moments of misery. His ear has been sucked to pieces, he has fallen in the bath, he has been cuddled, stroked, pulled, used in games of catch and made to listen to our banjo/kazoo duo. He has travelled to Canada, to Cornwall, to family and friends, to the supermarket, to the beach. And now he is irretrievably lost, somewhere in Norwich.

“Never mind,” she says cheerfully on being told the news. “I can play with lamb instead.” Meanwhile tears stream down mine and the LTLP’s faces, and we get horribly drunk that night on blackberry vodka.

She has not mentioned him since, apart from to comment that he got lost.

I learnt a lot of things over Christmas. I thought my main lesson was going to be that if you visit Banham Zoo, you are best advised to check out the animals on the brink of extinction before you join the queue for the cafe. But it has been hard to accept that my daughter is going to grow up and become a serial killer.

I miss him. Oh Boris! Boris! Orange peel! Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, prevent the… oh.

I worry that I am getting a bit sentimental.

We plan a relaxing Boxing Day walk.

My sister, RonnieB, is anxious to be back by mid-day, as she is keen that my nephew, DonnieB, gets fed on time. I am also keen to be fed on time. I do not know why babies always take priority. It is typical selfishness from the young.

I get up early, at 4.30am, in order to start negotiations with my mother, my father, my mother in law, my father in law, my sister, my brother in law, my nephew and the LTLP where we are going and how we are going to get there. By 10.30am this aspect is sorted out. We will drive to Sandringham, where the Queen lives, and walk around there.

We are in our allocated cars by 10.45. At this point, my father tries to renegotiate, but I am having none of it. We are in a hurry.

There is a knock on the windscreen.

It is the Village Doctor. I give him a complicated ‘it is really nice to see you, and Happy Christmas, and hope you have a good Boxing Day, but we are in a bit of a hurry, being six and a quarter hours into our relaxing walk and not quite having started it yet’ wave.

“I’ve just had the neighbours round,” he replies. “I think one of your chickens is in their front drive.”

I am a bit taken aback by this. Short Tony and I have been letting the chickens free-range over Christmas, as a treat. Their little faces light up when we go to open the gate to let them into the back gardens.

“Are you sure it’s one of ours?” I ask doubtfully. “They do not go near the road, as they are quite sensible.”

“I think it is.”

I look round at the crowd of impatient prospective walkers in the car, and in the car behind.

“I could try to catch it for you if you want, and bring it back?” he says.

It is an honorable offer, but would be beyond the call of duty. I sigh. “Won’t be a second,” I tell the people in the car. I then give the people in the second car a complicated ‘yes I know we are in a hurry, and I won’t be long, but I just have to go to fetch a chicken from up the road’ wave.

We reach the scene of the reported chicken-sighting. The Village Doctor lives sort of over the road and round the corner, and it is quite a way for a chicken to saunter. But there, in his neighbour’s front drive, is a chicken.

“It’s one of ours,” I confirm.

We study the chicken for a bit. My chickens are quite good-natured, but being picked up causes them alarm. It is quite happy pecking around near us, but any approach causes it to scurry away at speed.

The key to catching chickens is that you need to back them into a corner. Once you have backed them into a corner, they have nowhere to go and you can make a proper grab for them. Often it is useful to have a net, or a large flat corner-backing device, to achieve this. We have neither of these things, nor a corner. We circle round the bird, making occasional ineffectual lunges.

The chicken makes a break for the road. Travelling hearse-slowly from the direction of the Village is a Nissan Micra, manned by two pensioners. They lurch to a halt as a chicken flees across their path pursued by a sprinting General Practitioner.

The chicken abruptly spins 180 degrees, and dives underneath the car. I catch up, huffing and puffing. The pensioners look warily around them as we position ourselves on either side of the car, crouching purposefully on the balls of our feet, ready to pounce. I give them a complicated ‘I’m very sorry to delay you, but one of my chickens is underneath your car, which is surprising as they are generally quite sensible, but don’t worry – we are just about to catch it and take it back home’ wave.

There is a short stand-off. Me, Village Doctor, pensioners, chicken.

The chicken pokes out its head from underneath the front bumper. “Aha!” I cry, making a grab. It withdraws quickly and shoots out from the rear of the car, hastening down the middle of the road back towards the Cottage.

We set off after it and, now it is going in the right direction, a lifetime of watching ‘One Man and His Dog’ saves the day. The chicken is expertly shepherded into Short Tony’s garden, via a brief detour around Wallace’s outside lights.

“Thank you,” I say to the Village Doctor.

“No problem.”

I rejoin the car-load of relatives. We go for a relaxing Boxing Day walk.

“No,” I insist.

“It’s just that I’m really a bit stuck,” pleads the Village Publican.

“No.”

“And Short Tony says you’re really good,” he wheedles.

I silently wish Short Tony festering pustules, of the cock. He shall pay for this. “No,” I repeat.

“But I can’t find anybody else. And I’ve already rented a piano – it’s here in the bar.”

I sigh, take a deep breath, and explain. There is no way that I can accompany carols in the Village Pub on Christmas Eve, as I don’t know any carols and can’t read piano music. If I could read piano music then there would be no problem. Or if I could remember more than the first line of ‘Away in a Manger’ then I could probably improvise. Although that would most likely be fairly bad – the only tune that I can really play is the theme from ‘Minder’.

I do not mention my banjo skills, as I do not think that this is relevant to the conversation.

“Oh well – fair enough,” he concedes.

“I’m sorry I can’t help,” I say. “But I really do only know the theme from ‘Minder.’” I offer to join him for a quick pint later, as I feel a bit bad about not being able to help.

Later on, I am clutching one of my quick pints, wondering what is going on.

“Ummm – this one’s in C,” I mumble.

I plonk a hesitant introduction. The choir joins in tunefully.

“If you want to I’ll change the situation…” they trill.

The programme of events doesn’t last too long. I stay for a few more pints with Short Tony, John Twonil and the Drumming Barman. A festive Christmas atmosphere pervades. Short Tony purchases the piano.