�Twas Christmas morning and where there were supposed to be presents there were presents no more! The Christmas tree had been entrusted the task of the home for David�s presents. Mummy and Daddy had sited the paper wrapped with sparkly ribbon and multicoloured-bowed packages beneath the Christmas tree during the eve�s conclusion. Only freshly fallen needles now occupied those bare patches of carpet. The gifts were now about as present as a psycho�s sanity.
It was so nice - the room I mean, how it glowed with festive gusto; cards dangled along the wall in rows; fairy-lights (the cheap but pretty sort) draped the window pane; glittering (the name of these escapes me so I�ll manufacture one) bombles hung from the roof giving the living-room that pub-like appearance (The Dog and Duck had some just like them hanging over the pool table); and the Christmas tree, even being as real as the Yeti, gave off a dazzling pool of colour, from your greens right through to your silvers - who cared if it was useless without a plug socket, the main and most important thing was that it served its purpose�and also because Daddy lied that the local garden centre had no real ones left (vacuuming the needles up can be a right pain in the never-regions).
The sun hadn�t yet cut the tape to this day of drinking, idling, cracker-pulling, face-filling, snoring, moaning-when-the-Queen�s-speech-comes-on (�Why does she always say the same things just in a different order? Even a turkey looks happier on Christmas day!�), owning-more-chocolates-than-Thornton�s (Chocolate heaven since a quarter past Seven) and the annual view of the movie The Great Escape whilst playing scrabble, where, if you were Polish, you�d stand a good chance of getting rid of those Q�s, Z�s, J�s and K�s.
It was hard to condone that some tea-leaf was now hungrily ripping their way to reveal an Action-man (and an Arctic Assassin at that), a colouring book, two dozen assorted felt-tip pens, Mouse Trap (you just can�t whack it), the video collection of Thomas the Tank Engine, a He-Man lunchbox and to make the pile look bigger, three selection boxes that Daddy would have no doubt ended up polishing off during the course of Boxing Day. In other words, the whole lot of David�s presents. I mean, how callous was that? Who could do such a thing (and no, it wasn�t Gordon Brown)? They�d even nicked the chocolate Santa�s off the tree!
Let me tell you a few things about, as Mummy and Daddy called him, �little David�. To get the ball rolling, believe it or not fellow members of the human race (that�s providing animals haven�t learned to read and you�re not a golden retriever), David was male. He was old enough to say, know and remember the code for the alarm (as both Mummy and Daddy were very proud of him for) and he slept in a room with the garage behind so he�d be laughing if he ever he had to escape through his bedroom window as the drop was only a matter of feet (like knowing that helps�). Next, he didn�t have any brothers nor sisters, so I feel obliged to say, he was an only child - not that that really matters; I mean, the guy�s presents have been half-inched the night before Christmas so I don�t think it matters whether he had a family big enough to fill Old Trafford or not but I�m just creating that better picture for you�so one finds it easier to relate with the character�a writer�s habit I �spose. Anyway, in three hours and twenty-four minutes time (which will have shortened even further by the time you�ve finished reading this) the aforementioned was more cheesed off than the person who�s just spent absolutely ages waxing their car only to find that their driveway is under direct route of the local pigeon races.
Murmurs of light crept into the living room annulling the possibility of me, the author, possessing poor eyesight as indeed it became painstakingly obvious that there was as much under the tree as there is in an anorexic�s fridge. The windows were as they had been left with not so much as a shard out of place; the front and back doors� locks and hinges were as spick and span as David�s Mum demanded and not a single piece of furniture, object nor ornament lay unbefitting as to when Mother, Father and Son had ascended the wooden hills to Bedfordshire. One would naturally ponder as to how the burglars got in then�
Imagine the scene: the family had all gone to bed at twenty-five to ten. Daddy had sneakily brought the bin-bag of presents down shortly after, arranging them elegantly at the base of the pretend tree. The front door had then been locked, bolted and the alarm applied (pretty pointless you might think now). All the locks remained intact, with not a single sign of forcible entry throughout the house. How did the presents get taken?
I�ll give one further clue: the alarm was no longer set.
Do you give up? Okay, fair do�s; it�s not as easy as a bowl of fruit punch, that I�ll grant you. If you remember I said that David was old enough to know the four-digit code disabling the burglar alarm. What, David had nicked them? Oh know, you read me wrong! That didn�t happen. However, I�m just reminding you of the fact that little David knew the code, that�s all�
I�ll say this much, David was the only member of the family in the living room after Daddy had positioned the prezzies. I bet you think that David has wandered down, scooped them up into his little arms and carried them all the way back upstairs, enabling him to open them in a carefree manner, aren�t you? That would have been a little simple, don�t you think? Give me some credit. David never so much as crossed the threshold en route back to bed with a single piece of wrapping paper. No one would be mortified than he to find as much under the tree as was in Old Mother Hubbard�s cupboards; besides, they were his presents that were no longer there, after all.
David believed he was doing the right thing you see. In their house they had central heating as most do, don�t you agree? So, what they didn�t have was a fireplace and as a result, no chimney. Which left the vexing conundrum�how was Father Christmas meant to get in? And when that same person was knocking at his bedroom window, David knew that the chimney-less problem had arose. How though was Santa Clause able to be knocking at David�s bedroom window? Was he stood on his sleigh that defies gravity? Nothing quite as mystical. If you also remember, the garage led off underneath David�s bedroom window and so, St. Nick could quite easily stand on the ledge. David, as I said, believing to be in for an extra batch of Christmas goodies for his helpfulness, let Father Christmas in through the window and led him downstairs, gurgling happily all the way. David didn�t recognise what vodka and cigars smelt like (the pair of odours suffocating the burly Santa), believing this to be the real Santa even though he didn�t exactly have a big, white fluffy beard like when he had seen him in Debenhams last week (this one owned an in-mate�s stumble instead. David, bless him, thought that Father Christmas had had a shave, that�s all).
�A�right lad, go back to bed,� whispered Santa in a peculiarly scouse accent (I always thought Santa came from the North Pole?). �I�ll only leave you something if you go back to sleep and don�t tell your Mummy or Daddy.�
David concurred amiably with both requests.
When the robbery came to light the next day the police were called in. A pair of annoyed (after all, it was Christmas morning) uniforms took down the necessary jotting down the details with as much interest as a millionaire who�s spotted a ten pence piece on the floor.
�Mrs Beckham, how old is your son?� he asked pitifully.
�David�s seventeen,� she answered irately, casting daggers at her son who was sat crossed-legged in the corner wearing his characteristic five-seasons-old Manchester United shirt.