tidings of comfort and joy

Midnight.
My first Christmas without Mam and Dad in the house.
The place is still.
I move towards the tree in the hall.
Time to check the inventory.
I'm sifting through the rubbish looking for the good pressies.
The Doctor Barn ones.
He normally encloses cash.
There are three Doctor Barn packages.
Promising.
I tear the first one open.
A book on terrorism.
Leaf through the pages in case there's a checque secreted there.
Nothing.
Bah humbug.
I tear the second one open.
A book on photography.
Nothing hidden between the pages except for other pages.
Double bah.
Double humbug.
The ghost of Elvis appears at my shoulder.
He looks speculative.
I rip open the third package.
It contains an anorak embossed with the logo of an explorer who styles himself Bear Grylls.
If I remember rightly Bear Grylls has a television programme which follows his adventures surviving in the wilds without the assistance of modern technology.
There was a pseudo scandal a few years ago when someone alleged that the great Grylls, between takes for his television programme, was slipping off to sleep in luxury hotels.
At the time I had thought it would make a good comedy skit, or indeed a quite watchable documentary, you know, like a reality TV show featuring Bear Grylls' attempts to survive life in a luxury hotel, including rude waiters, soup with spit in it, awful meals, sexy maids, bedrooms with paper thin walls, dangerous looking Muslim check in clerks, and all the other modern hazards that go with paid luxury accomodation.
I think this could work.
But I digress.
Here I am beneath the tree in the hall of the Chateau on Christmas Eve.
No Mam.
No Dad.
No good pressies.

Clutching an unwearable anorak monographed prominently with the legend Bear Grylls.
I suppose if Bear Grylls paid me, I might wear it.
Triple bah.
Triple humbug.
Triple oh you know.
Sigh.
The ghost of Elvis begins to sing.
He sings quite soulfully:

"It will be lonely this Christmas
If Doctor Barn doesn't divvy up
It will be lonely this Christmas
With just the budgies and the bitch pup
It will be lon-n-n-nely
This Christmas
But maybe you'd better check the sleeves and the pockets
This Christmasssss
Wo-o-o-o-o-o-oh!"

A thought strikes me.
Elvis is right
About this as about many other things.
Doctor Barn is a sucker for the classics.
All is not lost.
There could theoretically be a wodge of cash hidden in the sleeve of the unwearable Bear Grylls coat.
I rifle it desperately while Elvis croons in neutral.
Nothing in the right sleeve.
Nothing in the left.
Nothing in the main body of the coat.
Sigh.
But lo!
There's a pocket with a zip on it.
Tentatively I undo the zip.
Elvis, newly joined by a heavenly choir, bursts into a glorious rendition that goes:

"Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Halllll-luuuuu-jaaaaa!"

Like Indiana Jones in the opening scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark, the noble Heelers retrieves a wodge of cash from the Bear Grylls coat.
Elvis and the choir change tempo.
They sing with great good cheer:

"A little less searchin for cash
A little more turkey baby
All this rootin for money
Ain't satisfactioning me
Come on Come
Let's repair to the kitchen
Come on Come on
The munchies are calling
It's time for a midnight feast
And a merry Christmas baby
Just like in the Famous Five
A merry Christma baby
With lashings of ginger beer
Hooo  yeah
A merry Christmas
To one and all
Babyyyyyy.
A merry Christmas
To one and allllll
Babyyyyyyyyy."