Page 52 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
I stare at the tea for a second, then set it down on the windowsill and go back to the toolbox. Still a few screws to tighten, and then on to fencing in the patio. Just something to put my hands on thatisn’t her.
I meant what I said.
And I would’ve kept it professional.
But part of me is relieved she said no.
Because I’m not entirely sure I’d have managed it.
The village green’s been transformed into a festive fever dream. Twinkly lights everywhere, children off their heads on sugar and seasonal adrenaline, and at least three men dressed as Father Christmas wandering around with wildly varying beard quality. Someone’s playing Christmas songs through a too-small speaker that keeps skipping, and the mulled wine stand smells aggressively like cloves and regret.
Lucy is clinging to my hand with the determination of a child who has spotted a bouncy castle, a pony, and possibly the actual meaning of life.
She stops dead in front of a stall selling ornaments shaped like penguins in various professions—a fireman, a ballerina, one who appears to be baking.
“Uncle Jasper!” she gasps, tugging on my coat. “LOOK. The penguins are doing jobs!”
“So they are.”
“I didn’t know penguins worked! Do they have tiny lunchboxes?”
“Almost definitely,” I say. “And a penguin staff room with fish biscuits and a very strict snack rota.”
She stares at the penguins for a moment, then points to the ballerina one. “That one’s called Lorna. She’s in charge of the Christmas disco.”
“Well, obviously. Look at that tutu. That’s a penguin who knows how to party.”
We move along, weaving between stalls selling handmade fudge, glittery candles, and several types of chutney that may or may not be legal.
Lucy skips beside me, cheeks pink, eyes wide, her bobble hat starting to do a slow spin toward the back of her head.
“So far,” she says, very seriously, “I’ve asked Father Christmas for the big sparkly paints, the crown-making kit from the telly, a jewellery box that sings, and the magic scissors that can cut zig-zags.”
“All sensible, useful items.”
She nods. “And the Princess Aurora dress with the real swishy skirt. Not the one with the scratchy bits.”
“Important distinction.”
“Oh! And the rainbow pencils that smell like strawberries. But only if he’s not too busy.”
I glance down. “You reckon he’s got room for all that?”
She shrugs. “If he doesn’t, he can ask the reindeers to help.”
“Delegation. I respect it.”
We continue on, dodging a child with a candy cane twice his own size and a woman loudly describing a mince pie as “life-changing”. A brass band strikes upWe Wish You a Merry Christmasand it feels like we are smack bang in the centre of some Christmas special.
Lucy tugs my sleeve again.
“Uncle Jasper?”
“Mm?”
“If I ask Father Christmas forsomething really big... like... a castle… or a pony—”
“Ambitious.”
