The office was closed in a twinkling, and the hack, er, I mean writer, with the long ends of his white comforter dangling below his waist (for he boasted no great-coat), went down a slide on Stonehill, at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honour of its being Christmas Eve, and then ran home to Hanham as hard as he could pelt, to play at blindman’s-buff.
My apologies to Charles Dickens, but I’m excitedly excited that I’m closing up shop for Christmas. Fa-la-la-la-la-la!
“A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!”