Gimme, gimme, gimme... (A fifty spot after midnight.)

The saddest scene of Christmas time has to be the sight of a grown man desperately rifling through his presents searching for cash.
Concealed cash, I mean.
Imagine it.
A man palpating the sleeves of jumpers in case there is a better present concealed therein. A man giving the most unreadable books a Sherlock Holmes style examination in case the fifty spot is hidden between page 112 and page 113.
I was that soldier.
For Doctor Barn and my sister in law Jackiedoodle have been known in the past to conceal wodges of notes in sundry books or garments they were presenting me. This is because Daktari and Jacklers know precisely how abysmal my finances are. And they know this because I tell them.
An innocent pair, their hearts can sometimes be led to largesse.
Yes folks it's true. You can bring a doctor and a bank official to water, and sometimes they will actually divvy up.
But I digress.
We were talking about the saddest scene of Christmas.
Yes one of the saddest scenes must most certainly be me checking the sleeves of jumpers for money, and shaking out the pages of books for ditto.
One of the saddest, mind.
The saddest of all is moments afterwards when I have found nothing, and pause to contemplate the bleak vicissitudes of the universe.
My handsome features take on a desolate veneer.
The swines didn't even buy me the parrot.
Ah yes. A small part of me had actually suspected that members of the family circle, might have been behind the purchase of Screechy a week ago. In my minds eye I could see them planning to give me this wonderful surprise.
"Here James, have a parrot. We knew you wanted one."
Bah humbug.
And arse of course.