Published in The Guardian

December 4th 1999 — November 24th 2001

Friday, November 26, 1999, 2.30pm Wisteria Walk, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leicestershire

I have not kept a diary since fire destroyed my house, furniture, clothes, books and life savings. The arsonist, Eleanor Flood, is residing in a secure unit, where she is doing an MA. Her dissertation is entitled “The Phoenix — Myth Or Metaphor?” I know, because she writes to me occasionally.

I have protested to the authorities, but they are powerless to stop her letters, which are obviously being smuggled out by a corrupt prison warden. As I lie in bed at night, listening to the breathing of my sons, William and Glenn, in their bunk-beds only inches away from my head, I often think of Eleanor Flood, and envy her. At least she has a room of her own, and time in which to think and write.

11pm Took the boys to watch Santa abseiling down the side of Debenhams in Leicester tonight on his way to his Grotto. William was enchanted by the sight of Santa swinging from a climbing rope, but Glenn kept looking around anxiously at the crowd of onlookers. He said, "If anybody from school sees me 'ere, I'm a dead man, Dad."

The queue for the grotto was at least 70 deep. It snaked through Toys into Bed Linens and Small Electrical Appliances. To placate us, Debenhams played Sir Cliff Richard's rendition of the Lord's Prayer, sung to the tune of “Auld Lang Syne”. An old man with his great-granddaughter muttered, "I didn't fight in two world wars so that Cliff Richard could line his pockets by exploiting the Lord's Prayer."

A Scotsman behind him said, "Aye, and the bastard's murderin' ‘Auld Lang Syne.’"

I left the boys in the queue, and went to Boots to buy some Nurofen and a packet of Starburst (I am mildly addicted to both). As I walked through the Foxhunter Shopping Centre, I passed a fat elf smoking a cigarette. I approached the elf and said, "Forgive me, but are you one of Santa's little helpers?" He scowled and said, "I'm on my break. Whadja want?"