Old Miss McDougall took one last look at the Christmas tree in the corner before she turned off the lamp and settled into bed. A diminutive spinster, Miss McDougall had filled her life with hard work and charity and on the eve of seventy-forth Christmas she was still as sharp in mind as she was in body. She smiled as she felt sleep upon her, thinking of all the presents she had collected for the children of the orphanage and the joy on their faces when she delivered them in the morning.
Just as she was drifting off to sleep, Miss McDougall heard a rattling at the window; one eye open and ears pricked, for a moment she thought she heard sleigh bells but dismissed the thought as foolish the fall of footsteps got closer down the hallway. The doorknob slowly turned and as the door opened Miss McDougall switched on the lamp, revealing a man of about forty sneaking through the door carrying a large cotton sack.
“Aha!” cried Miss McDougall. “I’ve caught you, sonny! What on earth do you think your doing?”
“Sorry, ma’am, just making some deliveries and I’ll be on my way,” he replied, walking into the room.
“Just you stop right where you are! Don’t come any further! Now, who in their right mind would be making deliveries at this time of night? I never ordered anything!”
The man pointed to the logo on his red polo shirt. “NPL – North Pole Logistics, we’re contracted to deliver all the Christmas presents.”
“Don’t give me that poppycock! You’re breaking in! Just like last year when the poor Stephensons’ had their house burgled and all their kiddies’ presents stolen! I’m onto you!”
“Listen, lady, I don’t usually do the geriatric run. We’re delivering to all elderly people without family now, so if you just pretend to go back to sleep . . .”
“How dare you speak to me like that!” Miss McDougall roared. “You wait right where you are, mister, I’m ringing the police! I know your type!”
“Look, love. I’m just the delivery guy,” he pulled a business card from his top pocket, “if you have got any complaints, ring head office.”
“Don’t come any closer!” Miss McDougall screeched but he kept walking towards her, card in hand. Miss McDougall grabbed her walking stick with a speed belying her age and deftly whacked him on the shins. The man shouted in pain, hopping backwards. He grabbed the walkie-talkie from his belt and radioed headquarters for help while Miss McDougall rang the police.
With a grin of satisfaction she watched the flashing lights of the police car racing down the street. Yet the lights were not red and blue as she expected but red and green, and instead of the blue checkers down the side, the car pulling up to her driveway was emblazoned with candycanes: the driver, a large man with a white beard in a red and white fur suit . . .