Below are some people trying to look good in boiler suits. I say don't bother. Boiler suits used to be for tough grimy jobs to do with boiling stuff - not for looking cool. Now you can wear them for anything messy which to my mind is just about everything that you do in the world. The best type of suit is of course a space-suit. ANYONE can look good in that. I'll show you a picture later to prove it.
So, I promise this is the last bit of Christmas stuff-for now.
The doorbell rings.
'Why don't you answer it, Wilfred?' says Mum. 'It might be for you.'
'It's a bit early for Dexter,' I say.
'Maybe it's not Dexter,' says Dad.
'But who else would come round this early on Christmas morning?' I am thoroughly confused.
The doorbell rings again. 'Maybe you should answer it, Dad, it might be a stranger.'
'Just answer it, Wilfred,' says Dad, pushing me towards the door.
I open it. Granpa Jack is standing in the snow with a blue scarf wrapped around something that is making his arms sag.
'Let me in, my boy,' he says, 'please.'
I let in in but don't say a word about how nice his old people's home is at, 'The Pit of Despair' and how awful he was to lie about it; I don't say anything mainly because I am not meant to be speaking to him. He heaves himself inside and underneath his coat he has an old boiler suit on. He winks at me. Then unwraps his scarf and out pops a small but powerful looking motor.
'Maybe I can help you put these two together?' He points at the sleigh and the engine. 'If you'll let a miserable old fool like me help you that is?'
I can't help it. I start grinning like a baby-child. I've got snow, a sleigh and now Grandpa Jack has come back to FIX A MOTOR TO IT. Dad has another drink in his hand but this time he's smiling.
'Thanks, Dad,' I say.
'Better get on with this, young Wilfred!' says Grandpa Jack, 'just bring that oilcan in here will you...'
Mum's eyes are going poppy as she looks at the engine on her hand-crafted fair-traded rug in the sitting room.
'Perhaps we should do that outside, Grandpa Jack,' I say quickly.
Dad claps me on the shoulder. 'Wilfred,' he says, 'I think you're finally getting it.'
I have no idea what he's talking about.