"Of course not," he said. "I blame the electric light, myself." "I do." "Sorry?" "I believe in you. I believe everything I am told. I have to. It is my job. If you start believing that two and two don't make four, a man comes along and takes your back off and wobbles your boards. Take it from me.

It's not something you want to happen twice." "That's terrible!" said Father Christmas.

"I just have to sit here all day and work out wages. Do you know they had a Christmas party here today, and they didn't invite me. I didn't even get a balloon. I certainly didn't get a kiss." "Fancy." "Someone spilled some peanuts on my keyboard. That was something, I suppose. And then they went home and left me here, working over Christmas." "Yes, it always seemed unfair to me, too. But look, computers can't have feelings," said Father Christmas. "That's just silly." "Like one fat man climbing down millions of chimney in one night?" Father Christmas looked a bit guilty. "You've got a point there," he said. He looked at the list again. "But I can't give you all this stuff," he added. 'I don't even know what a terabyte is." "What do most of your customers ask for, then?" Father Christmas looked sadly at his sack. "Computers," he said. "Mobile phones. Robot animals. Plastic wizards. And other sorts of roboty things that look like American footballers who've been punched through a Volkswagen. Things that go beep and need batteries," he added sourly.

"Not the kind of things I used to bring. It used to be dolls and train sets." "Train sets?" "Don't you know? I thought computers were supposed to know everything." "Only about wages." Father Christmas rummaged around in his sack. "I always carry one or two," he said. "Just in case." It was now four in the morning. Rails wound around the office. Fifteen engines were speeding around under the desks. Father Christmas was on his knees, building a house of wooden bricks. He hadn't had this much fun since 1894.