CHRISTMAS CRACKERS   

  Christmas Eve.   George Farrier relaxed in his favourite chair, a tumbler of best malt whisky and two mince pies on the small table at his side.  He looked up to the clock on the mantelpiece set, as always, to Greenwich Mean Time. He was content. Just a few more minutes and, with the weeks of planning completed, his dream of a life-time would be realised. It was 10.15 hours precisely. His taxi would be arriving at 10.30.

      He settled further back and allowed his mind to wander over those preceding weeks.  Months, really, he thought.  Even years.  Certainly a good fifty years since he had first come into contact with the red coated man with the white beard and whiskers. His mother had forced him to take that first step forward, despite his refusal, and to accept that pat on his head which was to become obligatory over the following few years. Well, it might not have been on that first occasion but certainly by the time he was six years old he was sure in his own mind that he would, one day,  repay this Father Christmas character for all this head-patting kindness.

      Sure, it had taken him some time to reach a decision and to finally devise a plan which would be as broad based as possible and would benefit a good number of the Father Christmases operating in the town this year.  After all, he thought, I can afford it now and there are less hurdles, such as marriage, children, elderly parents, to contend with - all gone and left him to his own devices, but unfortunately the number of Santas seemed to be increasing year on year which could make it more difficult and less effective in the future. So, it just had to be this year.

      He put the fact that earlier in the morning he had been spotted by Mrs Brown lifting the five carefully wrapped parcels into the boot of his car down to Murphy's Law.  And he was satisfied that he had done the right thing in refraining from the spur-of-the-moment thought that he should strike off one of the Father Christmas's on his list and graciously pass a parcel to Mrs Brown.  After all, he told himself, you never know with widows, especially when they live next door. Besides on this occasion the resulting complexities would be most inconvenient.

      "Off to your sister's again this year?" Mrs Brown had asked. "Kent, isn't it?"

      At least that was something, George thought. Kent for Cornwall.  He didn't put her right.

      Now he had delivered the five presents and was waiting.  All completed. It had been easy. He had been hanging around the Santa's grottos since the beginning of October. It was helpful that the kind old man arrived, or so it seemed, earlier and earlier, year after year. He had got himself on speaking terms during break times in the stores' canteens. So he had simply left his presents under the chairs when the old boys had popped out to the loo or somewhere for a quick drag.

      He sighed thinking of the times as a child he had asked, demanded, even pleaded for a chemistry set or something with dynamite to go with a bang only to receive snakes and ladders or ludo made of cardboard. These, it's true had burnt well, but not what he wanted.

      Now, with help from the Internet his ambitions were accomplished and his pride restored. Five anti-personnel time-bombs primed and ready to explode at precisely 10.25.this morning.

      At 10.24 George Farrier closed his front behind him to await the arrival of his taxi. Mrs Brown, returning from the shops, noticed nothing unusual in his appearance.

      "Was that thunder?" she asked. "I think there's something in the air."

      "Probably a little rain, dear," George said.