Flibber T’s great Christmas Prank

Contents

Introduction
The Sendoff Song
Stowaway
Imagine That!
Hijacked
Hard Landing
The Spirit of Christmas

Introduction

Children believe in Christmas. Santa’s magical flight from pole to pole and round the entire globe is real for them. Grown ups hold on to their belief in ‘The Spirit of Christmas,’ that is, generous acts of giving, celebrating community and family, sharing good cheer and exchanging gifts.

Flibber T. Gibbet—the prankstering elf of Chemainus town—will gain a deeper understanding of the meaning of Christmas when he stows away on Santa’s sleigh. This rollicking fantasy for children of all ages is my present to you. Merry Christmas!

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Christmas Day comes once a year,
but it’s every day in the making.
For love’s the thing that brings good cheer,
and in that there’s no mistaking.

Our hammers tap a fond tattoo
as at our benches we labour,
making presents for you, and you,
and baking goodies to savour.

Now it’s time to shout ‘Hooray!’
for all our love’s turned into toys
loaded up in Santa’s sleigh
for eagerly dreaming girls and boys.

So fly on Santa, take to the sky.
Make good the wishes of every child.
Shout ‘Merry Christmas’ from up on high
for love’s the thing that brings them smiles.

So fly on Santa, take to the sky
for love’s the thing that brings kids smiles.

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Elves, as you probably know, can pop up just about anywhere. Creatures of our imagination, they can fly out of your computer screen and land on your shoulder to whisper naughty secrets in your ear. Or they might loom suddenly in your bicycle mirror and make faces hoping you’ll be startled and end up in the ditch. They’re not usually nasty so much as mischievous and utterly irresponsible—they can’t resist pulling a good prank.

So where do you think an elf might like to go on Christmas Eve? Where might an incorrigible prankster hope to make mischief on a monumental scale? Let me give you a clue or two. In which direction does every true compass needle irresistibly point? What famous city does the North Star shine down upon? Where might you find the most industrious, least pranksterish colony of elves in the known universe?

That’s right! The North Pole, and Borealis, the city of elves, ruled happily by perhaps the most famous elf of all, Santa Claus—and Ms. Claus, of course.

So as the big day loomed, Flibber T. Gibbet said to himself, “There must be as many opportunities for a good laugh, spinning round at the top of the world Christmas Eve, as you’re likely to find in a lifetime anywhere else on the planet.” And off he went. He didn’t have to sledge more than 1,400 kilometres through vast ice fields, shivered by bitter frostbiting winds to, reach his goal—like Scott of the Antarctic and his ill-fated companions down under. Flibber T simply thought, “I’d like to go there.” And there he was.

And in that instant the most magnificent prank he’d ever dreamed of popped into his imagination. “I’ll go for a ride in Santa’s sleigh,” he vowed. “Now there’s an amazing prank to pull.”

He found himself in a town square. Streets radiated out in every direction, some lined with glittering storefronts, others with colourfully decorated apartment blocks, yet others with parks and playgrounds, and one—labelled Workshop Way—with what looked like factories and transportation facilities. “Wow!” Flibber T marvelled. Looking up, his jaw dropped. The city was canopied by a gigantic, crystal dome. Instead of streetlights, this glass cathedral concentrated star beams, so that the whole metropolis was bathed in heavenly light.

But when he peered into the darkness between the stars, Flibber T was reminded of his mission. Santa would take flight on his magical journey that very night. The thought of him snapping the reins and urging his reindeer into flight sent an excited shiver sizzling through every neuron in Flibber T’s skinny body. “Up, Rudolph!” Santa would urge his faithful team. “Up, Dasher! up, Dancer! up, Prancer and Vixen!” Saint Nick would give a gleeful shout. “On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!”

“I must get there lickety-split.” Flibber T. gasped, for he had a most mischievous, daring, cheeky prank in mind and needed to get to Santa’s sleigh before lift-off. But which way should he turn? Where was the hangar where the impatient reindeer would be waiting, their hooves pawing and harnesses jingling, eager to set off on their Christmas Eve odyssey?

“Workshop Way,” he whooped. Where else would the immense pile of presents to be delivered Christmas Eve be loaded onto Santa’s sleigh? In a blink, Flibber T shot off under the decorated arch down the wide industrial avenue where millions upon millions of presents were manufactured by hammering, clanging, shouting, banging troupes of merrily singing eves.

But all was silent on this night. He flew by the open workshop doors, surprised to see the buildings empty, the toy assembly lines stilled. Why, of course you ninny, it’s Christmas Eve. They’re not making any more toys; they’ll be loading them for delivery, he panicked. That’s why I haven’t seen a single soul since arriving at Borealis. They’re all getting ready to send Santa off!

Although Flibber T was running as fast as he could, he pushed even harder, imagining himself sprinting down the steep hill from Henry Road into Chemainus, each stride a long jump on the verge of stumble. But where am I going? How will I find Santa’s launch pad? He focused his joggled mind and guessed Santa’s sleigh must be at the very rim of the gigantic glass bowl turned upside down over Borealis. But where on the rim? That would have to be a place where it would be easiest to funnel all the presents from all the factories onto a loading dock, he figured. And there would have to be a sort of runway, where Santa and his reindeer could get up to speed and the happy Borealians could cheer them on from the sidelines. Ka-ching! His brain locked on to the only possible answer: Santa’s sleigh would tilt up into the perpetual night sky over Borealis at the end of the widest, most important street in all of Christmas Town, the very street Flibber T was on—Workshop Way.

He doubled his redoubled speed, flying toward the perimeter of Borealis like a cheetah, like an ostrich, like a whippet, like a… Oh, shut up! he panted. Stop wasting your breath…

But is it really a waste of breath to imagine yourself in a different sort of body, to urge yourself on by becoming a spirit faster than any human or even any elf—to feel how wondrous and splendid it might be to run, fly, swim, or dig faster, higher, and deeper than is humanly or even elfishly possible? To feel in muscles and lungs how incredibly stupendous all of nature is? Isn’t that the very most important thing about being alive?… Oh, do shut up!

His unwonted thoughts quieted down when, up the road a ways, Flibber T made out what looked like a crowd, jostling and cheering on either side of Workshop Way. The avenue widened out into a sort of plaza to accommodate the excited throng, and on either side, in front of the crowd, rows of lights—like you would see on a runway at night. They formed a procession toward a large opening in the dome and a ramp like you’d see in a skate park.

But where was Santa?

Ah! Flibber T. thought. The crowd was getting ready for the send-off, which meant Santa and his faithful reindeer would soon appear. Perfect! he calculated, slowing his pace, shuffling coyly along like an embarrassed latecomer to a party. It won’t be long now!

And sure enough, Rudolph’s red nose suddenly appeared out of a side street just ahead, bright as a beacon. Then came the jingling brace of reindeer, trotting proudly behind. Then Santa, Ho! Ho! Hoing gleefully, waving his outstretched arms in acknowledgment of the cheering throng that had spent the 365 days since last Christmas getting ready for the Christmas that would be dawning on the world in just a few hours. “Merry Christmas!” Santa boomed, and the Borealians responded with a huge whoop and a blizzard of tossed caps.

“Now or never!” Flibber T steeled himself. Santa’s sleigh and its huge mound of presents blocked the view between Flibber T. and the celebrating Borealians. Quick as a weasel—oh, how he loved weasels and admired their stealth!—Flibber T. darted forward, clambered up the back of the sleigh as it turned onto Workshop Way, and dug himself down under the teetering stack of sacks.

“Whoa!” Santa coaxed his team. The sleigh stopped with a little jolt. “Hooray!” the crowd raised another cheer, then settled into an excited silence. “Borealians!” Santa began, his deep, friendly voice calming the plaza. “My friends, for another year you have worked with good cheer and devotion so children throughout the world might have presents under their trees. In all that time I have not heard one single complaint—except, of course, from old Fanafroo, our tireless shop steward, who has a special permit for complaining…’

A snicker rippled through the crowd, and one wiseacre shouted, “Good old Fanafroo! We’d never make Christmas without him. Someone has to be grim!”

“Thank you, Fanafroo, for your earnestness,” Santa continued, “and thank you all for the spirit of giving, which you keep alive all year long. My job this evening is to deliver your gifts. It’s a delightful task, for I am delivering the love each and every one of you has lavished upon these presents. All the world heaps praises upon me, but I bow before you, my devoted friends, in gratitude for giving me the honour of sharing your goodwill!’

For a solemn moment the Borealians were silent, grateful for Santa’s praise. Then one voice, and another, and another was raised in what Flibber T.—concealed at the back of Santa’s sleigh—would always remember as the Borealian Send Off Song…

THE BOREALIAN SENDOFF SONG

As the chorus rang out over the plaza and echoed from the dome above, Santa clapped his gloved hands, jiggled the reins, and shouted, “Up, Rudolph! up, Dasher! up, Dancer! up, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!” The sleigh jolted forward, the reindeer’s hooves clattering on the cobbles at a quickening pace. Then the sleigh tilted up, and suddenly all was silent except for the rush of air that tore at them like a hurricane. Flibber T. had time to peek over the back of the sleigh, watching Borealis shrink to a twinkling glow on the great white expanse of the North Pole. Then, with another giddy jolt, the sleigh shot into accelerated time, and everything went truly silent.

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Have you ever seen a bullet? Not sitting on a table, ready to be loaded into the breach of a gun, but in actual flight, whistling through the air after it’s been spat out the barrel? Of course not! It’s moving too fast. Santa and his reindeer cannot be seen either, once they zoom into accelerated time, because they are moving way faster than any bullet. So Santa sightings must be staged. “Ease up, my dears!” he coaxes his galloping team from time to time, tugging ever so gently on the reins. “Slow down, my beauties.” Any boys or girls looking out their bedroom windows at that moment will see Santa suddenly appear, streaking across the night sky, Ho! Ho! Hoing! and wishing one and all a Merry Christmas!

Now that you know how fast Santa and his reindeer fly, you might be asking: Could any human do the same—run circles round the world at lightning speed, all around and up and down, visiting every village and every town, placing presents under every glittering tree?

We humans, even Olympic athletes, can only run full out for perhaps a hundred yards before we’re tuckered, lungs pumping like bellows, gasping for air; one circuit of the earth equals 43 million yards. Do the math; that’s 438 thousand hundred-yard dashes. And Santa’s sleigh is overloaded with billions of presents. And his team circles the earth many, many times on Christmas Eve, making millions of stops. What kind of energy propels them through that annual miracle? Is it nuclear power, rocket power, solar power? Could all those energy sources combined come even close to matching the speed and endurance of old Saint Nick? Nah! Anything invented by human beings—as ingenious as we are—could only move at slug-speed compared to the mystical whizzing of Santa Claus.

So how does he do it?

Flibber T. Gibbet, crouched in the belly of Santa’s sleigh, where he was jostled and pummelled by the shifting load of presents, asked himself that same question. Occasionally, peeping out over the back rail, he hadn’t seen anything impossible or even improbable in their jolly flight. He’d snuck onto jet planes and helicopters and thought it wasn’t so very different being a passenger in Santa’s sleigh on Christmas Eve—except I’d rather fly first-class, up front with Santa, instead of back here in the cargo bay. He’d hardly finished that thought when—blink!—he suddenly remembered something, a bit of information as brilliant as the filament in a lightbulb switched on in a darkened room: “Santa is an elf!” he laughed, then clamped his mouth shut, afraid his muffled outburst might be heard up top. What is the source of elven magic? How did I get from Chemainus to the North Pole quicker than you could snap your fingers?

“Imagination!” he ballyhooed, forgetting himself for a moment, then clamping his jaw shut again. Santa can do wonders because billions of children believe in him. And their parents, too, because they love to see their children happy. So together they make that dream of Christmas Eve come true every year. That’s what powers Santa’s sleigh! Our hopes and dreams! Fast and bright as the speed of light!

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Flibber T’s speculations about the Spirit of Christmas were interrupted by the bump of Santa’s sleigh on another roof. Oh my, he fretted. The sacks of presents had dwindled at an astonishing rate until just two remained—a nearly empty one on the seat beside Santa and a full one, which Flibber T crouched behind. “Just one sack of presents to deliver after this, my beauties, and we’ll be homeward bound,” the Chief Elf announced, climbing down from the sleigh. The reindeer stamped and snuffled gleefully, for even in accelerated time it had been a long, long night, and they were impatient to be unharnessed and let loose on the snowy pastures of the North Pole. “Soon, my dears. Soon your journey will be done…”

And I won’t have any sacks left to hide behind! Flibber T. cringed. I’ll be discovered!

“I do hope you won’t mind if I enjoy one last glass of milk and plate of cookies, though,” Santa pleaded. “It will only take a couple of minutes, and—as you know—Ms. Claus will be very strict about the number of cookies I’m allowed to eat during the rest of the year. A moment or two for me to indulge in one last sip and nibble and to savour the memory of another splendid Christmas Eve isn’t too much to ask, is it?”

Rudolf snorted in the affirmative, and the rest of the team jingled their harnesses approvingly. Flibber T—crouched in the back of the sleigh—agreed heartily, too, for Santa’s announcement had given him an idea—a plan so brazen, so bold, so utterly naughty, he simply had to attempt it.

While Santa is down there nibbling and sipping, I’ll go for a spin in his sleigh! he snickered.

Don’t! his better half objected.

Go for it! his other half urged.

Don’t!…

“Rest easy, my dears,” Santa crooned to his team. “Soon we’ll be back in Borealis, and you’ll be free to roam for another year.”

Boring-alis, Flibber T grumped as Santa trudged across the snow-capped roof, shouldering his near-empty sack, and slipped down the chimney…

It’s now or never, his wicked self egged him on.

It’s forever-never for a stupid prank like this, his sensible self cautioned.

That’s for me to decide, Flibber T shrugged them both off, peeping over Santa’s bench along the steaming backs of the reindeer. Santa was nowhere to be seen. I’ll just creep out and sit in the driver’s seat a moment or two to get a feel for it.He clambered up and over, into the box no one but Santa had ever occupied—at least, not without Santa’s permission, and never outside the hangar where his sleigh sat waiting for its annual flight 364 days each year.

Comfy, Flibber T approved, settling in. But cold! He clapped his hands together, hugged himself, and stamped his feet. Startled and annoyed, the reindeer glanced back. Their sudden motion jangled their harness bells, which made Flibber T aware of the reins running down their flanks and hanging over the rail of the sleigh. The leather straps danced enticingly.

I’ll just hold ‘em for a second so I can get a feel for what it’s like to be Mr. Claus on Christmas Eve. Reaching forward, Flibber T touched them—then drew back as if he’d been zapped.

Serves you right! his sensible voice chided.

Don’t be such a chicken! his other self taunted.

Flibber T reached for the reins again, this time grasping them in his outstretched hands without flinching. They were supple but surprisingly heavy. No sense sitting here like a statue, he figured, jiggling them just a little, sending a tremor running down the traces of the harnessed reindeer. The sled nudged forward an inch, and he dropped them again. “Don’t even think it! Don’t even look at those dangerous straps!” he recoiled.

Thoughts are funny things, though. Once one’s entered your head, just try and get rid of it. Can’t be done—no more than you can unsneeze a sneeze or unblink a blink. Flibber T whistled a tune. He counted from one to a hundred and back again. He got up and tap danced until both his selves shouted at him to stop being such a fool. He imagined he was itchy and scratched himself in the most difficult spots. He twisted his ears and tweaked his nose. But in the end he simply had to look at the reins while telling himself not to do what he couldn’t help doing.

“If I could get them to move a little more than an inch, I would be the only person in Borealis, the only elf in all the world—aside from Santa himself—who could say I had actually driven Santa’s sleigh. Why,” he warmed to the idea, “if I move it more than an inch, perhaps Santa will let me fly it more than a mile, more than a million miles. Maybe he needs a driver on Christmas Eves—after all, he is getting on. Who better than Flibber T. Gibbet to be Santa’s chauffeur?”

He picked up the reins yet again, holding them steady in his hands, then gave them a joggle.

Nothing! The reindeer stood stamping and steaming, unimpressed.

Flibber T frowned and jiggled the reins more vigorously.

They ignored him.

“What’s the matter with you lot!” he grumbled, standing up in the box and giving the reins a really good rattle.

Still nothing.

Then he remembered all the stories he’d heard of Santa’s Christmas Eve flights—how Santa stood up in his box, snapped the reins smartly, and called out to the reindeer, urging them into the sky. “There’s more to this than I imagined,” he admitted. “But I’ll get the hang of it.” Pretending to be Santa, he shook the reins enthusiastically and bellowed joyfully, “On, Rudolph! On Dancer! On… Whoooa!”

The sleigh leapt forward, rocketing into the night sky, sending Flibber T tumbling backward over the seat and into the cargo box.

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Without Santa on board, it seemed there was no protective bubble shielding the sleigh. So—once he’d recovered somewhat from the shock of being flung over Santa’s seat and knocking his head against the back of the cargo box—Flibber T cringed, trying to shield himself from the howling wind that cut through his clothing, piercing his skin with claws made of icicles. It seared his face, turned his eyeballs into globes of ice as he struggled his way back into Santa’s box to get hold of the reins.

“Stop!” he shouted, yanking at them desperately. “Go back!”

The reindeer took no notice. They galloped ever higher, until Flibber T truly believed they would take him above the stars. Cowering, he looked back over his shoulder, then yelped in dismay. The town was so far below he could barely make out the houses. They were too far away and getting farther every second.

“Oh! Where are you taking me?” he called out to the stampeding reindeer. “Please, turn back.”

Wishes are sometimes granted in unexpected ways, and the reindeer—with Rudolph in the lead—granted Pim’s plea in the most spectacular fashion. “Right,” the wily reindeer said. “Let’s go!” With that, he arced backward and drew the rest of the team through a mid-air somersault. Flibber T screamed so loud that, despite the sleigh’s dizzying altitude, more than one of the townspeople below heard his shriek and thought it might have been Halloween Night, not Christmas Eve!

Fast as the reindeer had carried him up, they descended at twice the speed. Flibber T’s ears flapped, his cheeks bulged, and his eyes popped. The wind ripped at his clothes with frigid claws. It pulled his scarf so hard he felt as if he might be strangled. He couldn’t scream any more because the compressing onrush of air made it impossible to get a sound out of his gaping mouth.

I am done for, he thought. “Goodbye, Santa! Goodbye, world!”

How could he think anything else? The team plunged straight toward the town faster than a meteorite. A disastrous crash seemed unavoidable. But in that instant, Flibber T did a courageous thing. Pulling hard at the reins, he tried to steer the careening sleigh away from a house where the astonished face of a delighted child was pointing from an upstairs window, the boy seeming unaware of the approaching danger. Gathering all his strength, straining mightily at the reins, Pim bellowed, “Left! Go left!”

The sleigh didn’t veer left as he commanded, but neither did it crash as he thought it surely must. Instead the team pulled out of their power dive at the last possible instant, clearing the rooftop with just inches to spare. The child shouted with glee at the dazzling acrobatics as the sleigh zoomed overhead.

It bounced wildly on, but Flibber T thought the reindeer had slackened their pace just a titch. Encouraged, he pleaded with them again. “Please!” he begged. “I have been stupid, I know… and vain, and deceitful, and selfish… I’m sure I’ve been many other things too, if only I could think of them. But take me back to the house where Santa is waiting, and I promise to be good.”

Their pace slackened a little more, but they were still headed in the wrong direction.

“It’s not for me, you understand,” he urged. “I’m sure Santa will never forgive me for this rotten trick, and that will be punishment enough. But I couldn’t bear to think that I have ruined Christmas for the people of this town—the last on Santa’s route. How could I live with myself if I were guilty of that?”

He tugged very gently at the reins as he made his plea, and thought hard about turning right, toward the rooftop they had left what seemed a lifetime ago. Reluctantly, the reindeer wheeled through the night sky.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you!” Pim blessed them. “You are such magnificent creatures! Stupendous! Beautiful!”

“Oh, do shut up!” Donner grumbled.

“Do be generous,” Rudolph admonished. “The elf has been very foolish, but he has also been brave, has he not?”

“I suppose so,” Donner allowed. “But it’s been a very long night, and the last thing I needed was a circus act thrown into it. I’m tired…”

“And grumpy,” Rudolph observed.

“Yes… I have a right to be.”

Of course that was true, but even Donner reluctantly admired the bravery of the conniving elf who had hijacked Santa’s sleigh on Christmas Eve. Not only had he pleaded for the people below instead of for himself, but he was clearly taking responsibility for what he’d done, directing them back to the rooftop where Santa waited and where he expected to be greeted with a horrible punishment.

“Straight on now,” Flibber T urged, thinking as well as saying the words. “Slow up.”

It was small comfort to him that the reindeer now listened willingly to his every command. They were flying perfectly, gliding towards the rooftop at a graceful canter. Keeping his eye on Santa the whole time, Flibber T steered them wide of the house, then circled to a gentle landing, Rudolph’s nose coming to rest by Santa’s sleeve.

Flibber T braced himself for the worst. Santa glared.

“Santa!” he trembled, peering over the backs of the reindeer. “I am sorry, truly sorry for what I have done, sir, and ready for the punishment I deserve. I am ashamed of the way I tricked you. I hope someday you will be able to forgive me.”

“Well, sir!” Santa thundered, his face swelling like a red balloon. “Here is your punishment!”

Having said this, Santa tilted his head back and laughed. Not his Ho, Ho, Ho laugh, but great big sobs of belly laughter that doubled him over and almost made him fall off the roof. The reindeer, too, were laughing in their own fashion, their sides heaving so that the bells on their harnesses jingled madly.

Flibber T’s cheeks burn more brightly than ever. To have been through what he’d just experienced and then to be laughed at… well, it just didn’t seem fair. But I suppose I’ve earned whatever else comes my way, he admitted.

“Why, I’ve never seen such a ride in all my life! Well done, my beauties!” Santa hooted, patting his reindeer. “Oh, very well done indeed!”

Turning to Flibber T, he chortled, then said, “My boy, I do hope you have learned a lesson tonight.”

“I have, sir,” Pim answered grimly.

“But I hope not too much of a lesson, for this old world needs elves like you.” Saying this, Santa strode down the line of reindeer to the side of the sleigh. Grabbing Flibber T by the shoulders, he gave him a giant bear hug. “Keep curiosity alive, my friend. Keep challenging us old-timers, because we need to be needled. I have lived a long, long time, and surprises are all too rare for me these days.”

“But Santa!” Pim cried. “What about my punishment?”

“Punishment! Bah, humbug! That’s not my job, young man. You’ll have to look somewhere else for that.”

He had opened his mouth to say more but was interrupted by an ear-splitting howl from Flibber T, who had noticed something glittering in the snow below. “Oh Santa!” he cried. “Look!”

Flibber T waved his arms about in every direction, spinning like a top. Santa followed his gaze and soon enough saw the cause of Flibber T’s dismay, for everywhere they looked, presents were strewn in the snow. They littered the street and were sprinkled on rooftops. They even decorated the trees, their bright wrapping paper reflecting the street lights. “It’s ruined,” Flibber T sobbed. “Christmas is ruined, and all because of me!”

“Now, now,” Santa consoled. “Don’t jump to conclusions, sir.”

“What do you mean, ‘Jump to conclusions?’” Flibber T snapped, forgetting for an instant who he was addressing. “Look around. What are we going to do?”

“Nothing,” Santa announced. “Look!” he said, pointing to the east. “Even in accelerated time we have not kept ahead of the sun. We have to go and leave this little town to tidy up after us, I’m afraid.”

“But the boys and girls, sir!” Flibber T gasped. “What about their presents?”

“They’ll just have to sort things out themselves,” Santa insisted, hustling back into the sleigh and shoving Flibber T to the far side of the bench. “On Rudolph,” Santa clucked, and before you could blink, they were in the sky, heading for the North Pole, Flibber T looking very glum.

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Now you might be thinking, “How can a Christmas tale end like that? What about the poor people whose presents had been strewn willy-nilly into the street?” Good questions, and the wise old elf Santa knew the answer. For the town of Longybyen—on Spitsbergen Island, off the very tippy-toe of northern Norway, which is always that last stop of Santa’s Christmas Eves—was about to celebrate the most wondrous Christmas Day ever.

When the Longybyens woke up and discovered no presents under their trees, they were downcast, wondering how Santa could have missed them.

‘What have we done?’ they asked. ‘How have we offended?’

But as soon as the Longybyens looked out their windows, they were amazed to see presents scattered everywhere. They all raced outside, many still in their pyjamas—bundled under downy coats, of course—and began gathering up their gifts. Children scrambled up snow banks by the roads, fathers crawled along rooftops, mothers pulled sleds down the main street, filling them with parcels.

Since they couldn’t sort out whose present was whose on the spot, the Longybyens carried all their presents to Longybyen Hall. They lit a blazing fire in the hearth, piled their gathered Christmas puddings and treats onto a huge table, and celebrated Christmas together—with the mayor, unconvincingly disguised as Santa, handing out the brightly wrapped packages to all the children. Everyone laughed, clapped, and sang through a very long and happy day. And if anyone’s present had got lost, well, the Longybyens knew how to share.

Ever since, they have celebrated Christmas in their own way, together at Longybyen Hall. And they claim they have the best Christmases of anyone in the world.

After he reported this to Flibber T, Santa mused that it would make his job a lot easier if he could simply toss presents overboard as he flew along through the night. ‘Don’t you dare,’ Mrs. Claus joked. ‘Why, with your aim, half of them would end up in the ocean or on top of Mount Everest.’

So as you see, everything turned out all right. Better than all right, really. Flibber T has become a welcome guest at the North Pole, where the story of his great heist is retold every year in the Great Hall of Borealis as everyone celebrates the spin of the world through another happy Christmas Day and wishes the very best of the season to one and all… including you!

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Let me know what you think. Are you enjoying your read of Flibber T. Gibbet’s great Christmas Prank? Share your thoughts below, or send them to me direct…

Flibber T’s great Christmas Prank

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