An Original Story by Nathalie Boisard-Beudin

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I was so tired that I fell asleep in my plate of spaghetti con le vongole^*. Pity that was, for it was excellent. Pity and messy too because I ended up having vongole all over my hair. Of course, now the cats LOVE me, but would Santa Claus? I need a computer this year, so I have been trying to be extra good, even if I have figured out by now that it does not pay. Santa Claus too, being a man, must have that thing about naughty girls ( I suppose he probably has a good one at home already so would be looking forward to the alternative).

So after disgracing myself so thoroughly in the spaghetti affair, I was nursing a glass of whisky on my lap, staring disgruntled into the fire place which held no burning log but rather a gaudy mishmash of luminous optical fibres Christmas tree and a nativity scene where the new born had not yet been placed. Joseph and Mary were still kneeling in prayers – for a prompt and painless deliverance, I suppose – and the angel dangling above looking bored with his harp – he’d always wanted to play the kazoo instead but does anybody pays attention to other people’s wishes in this place? The lone plastic kangaroo figure that had been placed near the manger by a little nephew earlier on was not going to dissent. It had dreamt of a white Christmas, yes, but not one that involved artificial foam or smelt of pasta con le vongole.
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