‘You’re up next,’ a stagehand hissed in Nanny Piggins’ ear.

  Nanny Anne’s group was a sight to behold. They actually looked like angels because they had dressed up in costumes made of white silk, silver tinsel and an astonishing amount of glitter. They even had halos that were electric and voice-operated so that they flashed on and off as they sang. Not that anyone noticed, because as soon as Nanny Anne’s group started, their singing was so sublime that the audience was entranced . . . for about three minutes.

  Nanny Anne’s group did not, however, stop after three minutes; they went on and on. People started to shift in their seats and fidget. For the singing was beautiful, but that was it. The audience could not make out the words because their voices were so high and Nanny Anne insisted on singing many of the well-known songs in Italian or, worse still, Latin, to make them more sophisticated. Inaudible lyrics combined with a lovely sound just started to put the audience to sleep, or put their bottoms to sleep, hence the fidgeting.

  ‘I suspected as much,’ said Nanny Piggins with a wry smile.

  ‘What’s happening?’ asked Samantha.

  ‘Entertaining an audience is not about beauty,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Well . . . partly it is. But it is also about astonishing, delighting, surprising and, most importantly, scaring the hoo-hah out of them. Sunsets are beautiful. But they happen every day and how often do we even bother to step outside to look at them. Whereas traffic accidents are horrific, yet we always crane our necks for a stickybeak.’

  ‘So is that why you are so confident that everyone will enjoy our singing?’ asked Michael. ‘Because it is going to be like a traffic accident?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Nanny Piggins assured him. ‘Our performance will be spectacular because we have a secret weapon.’

  At this point Nanny Anne’s group stopped singing and received rapturous applause, because they had been going on for over an hour and everyone was relieved that they had finally stopped. They filed past Nanny Piggins as they left the stage.

  ‘I’m surprised you have the courage to follow us,’ said Nanny Anne with a smile.

  ‘I’m delighted to,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘The audience will now be pathetically grateful to see a real performance.’

  What the children did not realise, however, was that when Nanny Piggins said she had a secret weapon, she literally meant a weapon. As they stepped up on stage, they could hear the sound of heavy machinery being moved on behind them.

  ‘Are we going to start?’ asked Derrick, as they stared out at the expectant and bored crowd. Many people in the audience were openly checking their watches and muttering, ‘When will all this be over?’

  Suddenly a huge 16-inch Howitzer (giant cannon) rolled out of the bushes behind the stage, with its barrel pointed at the crowd.

  ‘Ah, excellent,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘The Colonel has arrived and right on time. I do enjoy working with a military man.’

  ‘The pleasure is all mine,’ the Colonel called out from his gunnery position (he had been deeply in love with Nanny Piggins for a long time now; he would launch a coup d’état on the government if she asked him to).

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Derrick. ‘Shell Nanny Anne?’

  ‘Goodness no,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘The Colonel has the coordinates to fire at the audience.’

  Fortunately the audience could not hear her, or they did not believe her. Either way, no-one started running away as Nanny Piggins, Boris and the children launched into their first song. And the audience loved it. Largely because as they reached the end of the first line of their first song the cannon fired, blasting a giant chocolate mud cake over the entire crowd.

  Cake, icing, cream and strawberry jam splattered down on everyone. Their first reaction was to be horrified. Then they began tasting the sugary goo and soon everyone became delighted to be covered in so much of it. But the performance did not end there. Nanny Piggins’ group kept singing, and at the end of every line another shell full of cake exploded over the crowd; but each time it was a different, yet equally sublime cake, pie, pudding, tart or gateau. There was sticky toffee pudding, key lime pie, banoffee pudding, treacle tart and many, many more. It was like having an edible fireworks display blasted in your face. In short, the audience loved it.

  If Christmas is about getting together with friends and family and sharing your good fortune, what better way to do that than to be hit in the face repeatedly with the finest baked goods imaginable?

  And the people who enjoyed it most were Nanny Anne’s singing group. She’d had them on a strict zero calorie diet for weeks now. The air was so thick with sugar and fat that they were practically gaining weight by osmosis. But best of all, their white angel dresses were irrevocably stained, which pleased the mothers because very few people look good in white.

  When they reached the end of their set (the five carols Nanny Piggins had learnt), the audience yelled so many cries of bravo and encore that they repeated the whole performance twice before walking off stage to thunderous applause and foot stamping.

  In her moment of triumph Nanny Piggins looked across to Nanny Anne at the back of the audience. She looked thwarted and stained in her now ruined angel dress. A wave of Christmas compassion filled Nanny Piggins’ heart. She walked over to her arch-nemesis to make a peace offering.

  ‘Nanny Anne,’ said Nanny Piggins.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Nanny Anne sulkily.

  ‘It is Christmas and we are meant to be good to each other at Christmas,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘so as a gesture of goodwill I would like to invite you to join my choir for next years’ Carols by Candlelight concert.’

  ‘Why on earth would I do that?’ asked Nanny Anne.

  ‘I know you would derive no pleasure singing alongside me, a far superior performer,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘but if you were standing alongside me, instead of in the audience, your outfit would not get covered in cake shrapnel.’

  Nanny Anne looked down at her own hopelessly stained angel outfit, then across at Nanny Piggins’ impeccable pale blue cocktail dress, and reluctantly said, ‘All right.’ Then Nanny Anne shocked Nanny Piggins by doing something entirely unexpected – she held open her arms and gave Nanny Piggins a big tight hug.

  Boris gasped he was so impressed. ‘I didn’t know she had it in her. Such technique! Good squeeze, arm extension and duration.’ (Being a bear, he was an expert on bear hugging.)

  As Nanny Anne walked away, the children stepped forward to join Nanny Piggins.

  ‘What an unexpectedly harmonious result,’ said Nanny Piggins.

  ‘You do realise that Nanny Anne only hugged you,’ said Derrick, ‘so she would spread the stains from her outfit onto yours, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘After all, she is still a dreadful woman. But she doesn’t realise how much I enjoy having cake stains all over my dress, which I can suck out later, so I am prepared to accept her gesture in the spirit that it was not intended.’

  Obviously, bribing a police officer is wrong. But if your local Police Sergeant loves freshly baked shortbread cookies as much as mine does, I advise you to have a batch of these ready at all times. It’s not so much a bribe as a mood enhancer. Experience has taught me that nothing makes the Police Sergeant forget what he is cross about as quickly as a mouthful of shortbread.

  INGREDIENTS

  175 grams butter

  110 grams caster sugar

  200 grams plain flour

  25 grams semolina flour

  a little caster sugar for dusting

  METHOD

  1. Preheat the oven to 150°C.

  2. Lay a sheet of baking paper on a cookie tray.

  3. Beat the butter and sugar together with a wooden spoon.

  4. Add the flour and semolina flour and keep beating.

  5. Then abandon the spoon and knead with your hands until you have a dough. (Don’t be afraid to get messy. It will be fun to lick off later.)

  6. Sprinkle some caster sugar on the bench, then roll out the dough.

  7. Cut out shapes using festive cookie cutters (or you can use letter shapes if you need to send someone a rude message). Then lay your shapes out on the cookie tray.

  8. Use a fork to prick the shortbread shapes in the middle or they will rise up while baking.

  9. Bake in the oven for 25 to 30 minutes, or until they start to go brown around the edges.

  10. Remove your cookies from the oven, lay them out on a cooling rack and dust them with caster sugar for extra crunchiness.

  11. Eat, enjoy and share with any law enforcement officer who is cross with you.

  PS. If you get into trouble as much as I do then it is wise to make up a double batch of dough, and keep half in the fridge as a standby. (Roll the spare dough into a log and wrap it up in cling wrap.) Then, if you find out the police are about to swoop, you can quickly get a batch in the oven before they kick in your door. With luck, the smell will be so divine the Police Sergeant will entirely forget to serve the arrest warrant.

  ’Twas the night before Christmas, so naturally Nanny Piggins was up on the roof Santa-proofing the house by fastening chicken wire over the chimney.

  ‘Right, pass me the nail gun,’ instructed Nanny Piggins.

  ‘You know Santa Claus is not a bad person,’ said Michael, handing it to her.

  ‘I know that,’ said Nanny Piggins.

  ‘Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!’ went the nail gun.

  ‘No-one likes getting presents from strangers more than me,’ continued Nanny Piggins, ‘but that doesn’t mean that breaking and entering is all right. If he wants to give us gifts he should knock on the door, come in and have a slice of cake like a normal person.’

  The children looked at each other. Their nanny was not accustomed to the finer points of Christmas. Because, you see, she had lived most of her life in the circus, and the Ringmaster never let them celebrate the yuletide holiday.

  In fact, he never let them celebrate any holiday. He even discouraged them from knowing the day of the week. Anything that allowed them to measure time, and realise how long they had been working for him, was strictly forbidden.

  ‘It amazes me that one overweight man, wearing a bright red fur-trimmed suit no less, manages to go on a worldwide crime spree on the same night every year and nobody has ever done anything about it!’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘You’d think at the very least the animal rights activists would have a go at him for wearing fur.’

  ‘Perhaps they don’t because they like getting presents,’ suggested Michael.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ agreed Nanny Piggins. ‘So few people have principles anymore. Especially when it comes to a stocking full of chocolate treats and toys. Now where’s my note?’

  Derrick handed his nanny the note she had written earlier. It read:

  Dear Mr Santa Claus,

  Kindly refrain from breaking into this home via the chimney. If you were a true gentleman you would knock at the front door and introduce yourself. Or at the very least climb in through the upstairs bathroom window like a normal person.

  Kind Regards

  Nanny Piggins F.P. (Flying Pig)

  ‘There, that ought to do it,’ said Nanny Piggins as she used the nail gun to fix the note to the chimney stack.

  Boris promptly burst into tears. Celebrating Christmas was new for him too, but unlike Nanny Piggins he was anxious not to miss out. ‘But what about me?’ blubbered Boris. ‘My shed doesn’t have a chimney. How am I going to get my presents?’

  Samantha gave Boris’ leg a comforting hug. ‘I’m sure he’ll climb in through the window or dismantle part of the roof. After all, he’s Santa, so he’s got lots of initiative.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Boris, struggling to control his tears. ‘It’s just that I really do like getting presents.’

  ‘It’s bears like you who send mixed messages to burglars,’ said Nanny Piggins sternly. ‘Either it’s all right to break into people’s homes or it’s not.’

  ‘You break into people’s homes all the time,’ Derrick pointed out.

  ‘But that’s different,’ protested Nanny Piggins.

  ‘How?’ asked Michael.

  Fortunately Nanny Piggins was saved from having to find logic in her argument because at this point they were interrupted by a noise from below.

  ‘There is someone on the street,’ whispered Derrick.

  ‘Is it the Police Sergeant?’ asked Nanny Piggins. ‘I called him and reported that there was a large fat man, wearing red, breaking into houses tonight. True, he did laugh at me and hang up. But perhaps he has decided to do something about it after all.’

  They all crept to the edge of the roof and looked over. And they were startled by what they saw. It was not the Police Sergeant. No, it was someone much more impressive. It was the greatest annual home intruder of them all.

  ‘It’s Santa Claus!’ gasped Nanny Piggins.

  There was no mistaking the red clothes, the white beard, the sack full of toys and the ‘little round belly that shook like a bowl full of jelly when he laughed’ (not that he laughed while they were watching him. But he did sneeze and it definitely wobbled then).

  ‘But where are his reindeer?’ asked Boris. It did seem strange to see Santa travelling on foot. He did not look like a man who took exercise regularly.

  ‘Perhaps they’ve ditched him because they don’t want to do jail-time,’ said Nanny Piggins.

  ‘He’s got a lot of toys in that sack,’ said Michael. ‘I hope he’s got something good for us.’

  ‘Pass me the nail gun again,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I’ve got a present for him if he tries getting down our chimney.’

  ‘You can’t shoot Santa with a nail gun!’ protested Samantha.

  ‘Not even a little bit?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

  ‘No!’ exclaimed the children.

  ‘I could just nail his boots to the roof until the police get here,’ suggested Nanny Piggins.

  ‘He’s got to deliver presents to all the boys and girls in the world,’ explained Derrick. ‘He hasn’t got time to be arrested.’

  ‘He’s only got to deliver them to all the good boys and girls,’ muttered Nanny Piggins. ‘That’s probably only seven or eight children on the entire planet. After all, 365 days in a row is an awfully long time to expect a child to behave themselves. Most of them struggle to keep it up for five minutes. Delivering presents to good children will probably only take him an hour or two. Then he’ll go home to the North Pole and watch television.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been a good boy and I’m not letting him forget about me!’ declared Boris as he leapt up to his full height, waved his arms and called out, ‘Hey, Santa! I live in the shed around the back. I haven’t got a chimney but I’ll leave out a chainsaw and you can cut a hole in the roof if you like.’

  Unfortunately Santa Claus was so shocked to suddenly be addressed by a ten-foot-tall bear standing on a rooftop, that he stumbled backwards, dropping his sack and falling into the gutter, where he hit his head hard on the edge of the pavement.

  ‘Oh my goodness!’ exclaimed Samantha. ‘You’ve killed Santa!!!’

  Boris burst into tears. ‘I didn’t mean to!’ he sobbed.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll first-aid him,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘He may be an international master criminal, but if he needs an icepack I’m just the pig for the job!’ With that dramatic statement, Nanny Piggins leapt straight off the roof.

  When the children rushed to look over the edge they were relieved to discover Nanny Piggins had caught the branch of a tree. (She had been watching Robin Hood and had seen Errol Flynn do something very similar, so she had been secretly practising leaping out of her second-storey bedroom window all week.) She then climbed down the tree and rushed over to Santa.

  The children hurried back into the attic, ran down the stairs and out through the house to help her (which only took three seconds more, but was nowhere near as impressive).

  ‘Is he all right?’ asked Derrick.

  ‘Well he’s breathing,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘but just look at him! He’s wearing a red jacket with red trousers! His dress sense is in serious trouble.’

  ‘Maybe that’s fashionable at the North Pole,’ suggested Boris.

  ‘Looking silly isn’t fashionable anywhere,’ said Nanny Piggins firmly, ‘unless you’re a clown and then it is an unfortunate occupational requirement.’

  ‘Check his pupils,’ suggested Samantha.

  ‘His what-whats?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

  ‘The black part of his eyes,’ explained Derrick.

  ‘Why?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

  ‘That’s what they always do on TV medical dramas,’ explained Samantha.

  ‘Then it must be right,’ decided Nanny Piggins. She pulled up each of Santa’s eyelids and had a look at his eyes. (This was easy to do because she had been eating toffee so her trotters were sticky and it was easy to get a good grip on his eyelashes.) ‘Mmm,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Yep, they definitely look like eyes.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?’ asked Michael.

  ‘We could,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘but they would only call the police. And you know the Police Sergeant made me promise I would not make any more citizen’s arrests this week.’

  Nanny Piggins had tried arresting the Post Mistress at their local post office, arguing that the length of her queues were a cruel and unusual punishment, and that since torture had been outlawed under the Geneva Convention, the Post Mistress clearly should be thrown in jail.

  ‘You don’t want me to spend Christmas Day in jail, do you?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

  ‘You spent Easter in jail and you said you enjoyed it,’ Derrick reminded her.

  Nanny Piggins had been arrested after hurling herself at an Easter bunny in the shopping centre and wrestling him to the ground. In the end she was let off because, as she told the judge, ‘The Easter Bunny only had himself to blame. Dressing up in a full-sized bunny suit and handing out free chocolate is like dressing-up as a zebra and standing in the lion enclosure at the zoo.’