As I spotted Christmas decorations in some shops as early as October, I see no reason to hold back on Christmas stories, even though we’re still only in mid-November. In 2026, mid-November is actually a bit on the late side. The attractive (and very expensive) Advent calendars (for grown-up women) are already sold out. I know, because I tried to buy one for my grown-up daughter. I’ve no idea how I’m going to wriggle out of that blunder. But that’s a worry for another time. I’m sure I’ve got worse things to look forward to. After all, we’re talking about Christmas.
Well, I promised a Christmas story:
A few years ago, we decided to spend the days between Christmas and New Year in Thailand with close friends who live in that tropical paradise. My mate took the opportunity to promote me to the role of go-between, which involved sneaking around in other people’s gardens the day before we set off. A business associate owed him money, and if I could be so kind as to carry this unremarkable sum (which was well within the bounds of the law) in my own inside pocket to Thailand, it would save a lot of transfer complications and suchlike.
And so it came to pass that I found myself wandering round unfamiliar residential streets on Christmas Eve morning, searching for an address. My business contact was already on his way to the Christmas cottage, but there was supposed to be an envelope containing US dollars for me hidden in the barbecue in the garden. My stress levels were already high, and they weren’t helped by the glaring sun in my face, poorly signposted street names and impatient local drivers right on my tail, so close that I could read their swear words in the wing mirror. Where on earth was that house?
At last I found it. No. 13A. I turned into the narrow side road and rattled out onto a small courtyard. I strolled over to the garden gate – which wouldn’t budge. Locked. I had to climb over. Hopefully without the neighbours, busy with their Christmas preparations, looking out of their windows. It wasn’t that easy to get over either, as this was a half-height wooden fence. For a brief moment, I felt just like a nut in a nutcracker. Yes, I let out a girlish scream.
You don’t exactly feel on top of the world when you’re hobbling around in a stranger’s garden on Christmas Eve morning. Even less so when you find yourself rummaging through an outdoor barbecue that doesn’t contain what you’ve come to fetch at all. There was plenty of charcoal and soot left over from the summer’s fun, but not a trace of dollars.
As I stood there at a loss, I heard voices. ‘Hello!’, called a lady. ‘Hello!’, I replied. She was standing on the steps in front of the front door with two small children wearing Santa hats. A dad came into view. Everyone was looking at me.
‘They’re not at home,’ I said, ‘they’ve already gone away.’ “Gone?” exclaimed the lady in disbelief, “but we’re supposed to be celebrating Christmas Eve here tonight!” The little boy burst into tears. “Isn’t it going to be Christmas?” whimpered his sister. Now both children were crying.
I tried to calm the situation with frantic hand gestures. Alarm bells were ringing ominously inside my head. I bravely stammered out a rephrasing: “Well, I mean, I don’t know where they were going, so they’ll probably come back later – at least if they know you’re celebrating Christmas here!”
Best to get out of there. I started climbing back over the fence. Now the man became wary.
– Tell me, who are you actually, and what are you doing here?
– “I’m a friend of Else’s, and I’d come to collect some money, but I couldn’t find it,” I said, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.
– “Else? Else who?”
I had nothing more to say. Just as the man took a step towards me, the door opened.
‘Well, hello, there you are!’ said a pleasant woman’s voice. Then the lady spotted the distraught children. “But what’s the matter with you lot? Are you crying? And… who’s that man?”
That was my cue. I turned the key, ignored the exasperated “Hello there!” and bolted.
Right house number, wrong street. Classic blunder. By now they were surely on the phone to the police. Full emergency response. Suspicious person, perhaps interrupted whilst in the process of concluding a drug deal, on the run in a grey RAV4 with studded tyres; the man may be dangerous. And the newspapers: ‘Criminal ruined Christmas for two young children who had to be looked after by crisis psychiatrists.’
The suspect wasn’t far away, as the correct number 13A was on the parallel road. This time I found money in the barbecue. I made it out of the residential area unscathed and took a few clever detours down towards the city centre, to shake off any pursuers.
The moral of the story is, of course, that you must never agree to potter about on another man’s property when he isn’t at home. It doesn’t help that he was the one who came up with the idea, unless he’s notified all the neighbours and the nearest police station. That should be a minimum requirement.
I can actually vividly imagine that there’s nothing more sinister than the sight of complete strangers lurking around a neighbour’s house. In broad daylight, no less. It suggests that there’s a dangerous bunch of thugs about – presumably Eastern Europeans – who’ll stop at nothing and are certainly harassing children.
That must have been what the neighbours of a (former) friend of mine thought when I went to collect some records he’d borrowed from me for so long that he was probably considering playing the killer ‘adverse possession’ card. He was due to go away, but that didn’t stop me; I insisted that the records had to be collected NOW. Eventually, grumpy and annoyed, he agreed to put the records in a plastic bag on the veranda. The only snag with this arrangement was that the veranda was on the second floor of a four-flat block, and I had to use the building’s ladder to get up there, and this after dark.
The police caught me whilst I was still on the veranda. I’m absolutely terrified of climbing ladders, especially going down them, so I was still struggling to keep my nerve when the blue lights appeared. This was before the days of mobile phones, so I couldn’t ring my ex-partner to confirm that I was telling the truth, and had to go along to the station.
It was easy to get up there, but I didn’t dare climb down. Then the police arrived.
I finally learnt my lesson whilst playing the part of the man in the garden, one Christmas Eve morning a few years ago. It cost a few tears from a child, and no doubt many nightmares, but you have to break a few eggs to make an omelette.
Now I’m off on a trip to look for the expensive and popular advent calendar my daughter wants. Make way for the calendar man!
