‘She’s no angel!’
Santa had a poor defence. Standing for his photo, he pointed at the woman who wore a sparkly dress wrapped around a toilet roll, tinsel necklace, pair of wings and a halo resting on her wobbly ping pong ball head.
His eyes pleaded with the angel. She sneered back from her smudged mouth, a crudely drawn smile from ear to ear, divided her chinless face.
There had always been friction between his accuser, and himself. She resented his immaculate outfit, his perfect round figure, jolly face, and welcoming open arms all packed into a four inch high, squeaky clean character and saw her chance to get rid of him during that fateful moment when the cat chose to swipe him off his branch.
She could easily have moved away, but she lay, prostrate, waiting for him to fall on top of her. Her purity was compromised.
It traumatised the children.
Christmas was ruined.