Scene            Night time. The living room of a working class house, 11 o’clock on Christmas Eve. A boy, Peter, is curled up on the sofa, asleep. Suddenly the door is pushed open and a bearded figure enters the room, making a fair bit of noise as he struggles to find the light switch and flick it on. He is dressed in a red cloak, black boots and a rather sad looking red hat lined with white fur. He curses quietly as he stumbles over the edge of the carpet. The boy wakes up, rubbing his eyes. He doesn’t seem too surprised by the visitor. If anything he appears a little annoyed at his late arrival.   

 PETER               Who’s that? Oh, it’s you. I wondered when you’d turn up.     

F.C.                  Allo Allo, what are you doing up at this time of night? 

PETER               Waiting for you of course. Sneaked downstairs, didn’t I? Wanted to be here when you arrived, to see if you was real or not. 

F.C.                  Well I’m standing here in front of you, aren’t I, so you can push off back upstairs again. 

PETER              Aren’t you supposed to come down the chimney? It says in all the songs that you come down the chimney. 

F.C.                  Don’t be daft. How can I fly around on a sleigh with all them guns pointed up at the sky waiting for Gerry bombers? I’d get blasted to smithereens! 

PETER              They wouldn’t shoot at Santa Claus, would they?   

F.C.                  Oh wouldn’t they? Don’t you be too sure sonny. I can just hear the gun commander now: “I say, hold your fire, men. It’s Father Christmas. Hurrah!” I don’t think so. They’d probably think it was some clever German plan, dressing a plane up to look like Santa’s sleigh. I’d be blown out of the sky before you could say ‘mince pie’! 

PETER              Speaking of mince pies, there’s one there in the fireplace for you. It’s not very nice, cos it’s got powdered eggs in instead of real ones, and we had to make the mincemeat ourselves. Our Betty spat hers all over the table, said it tasted like dog sick. She didn’t half get a clout from our mum. 

F.C.                  Well it’s a nice thought anyhow. Perhaps I’ll save it till later. And what’s this? A glass of whisky? Lovely!  

PETER              Whisky? You must be joking. At black market prices? No chance. That’s cold tea ….. from yesterday morning. 

F.C.                  Ah. Well maybe I’ll save that too, have myself a little midnight feast later.  

PETER              Are you sure you’re the real Father Christmas? 

F.C.                  Course I am! Don’t I look like him? 

PETER              You look a lot like Danny’s grandad. 

F.C.                  Well I’m not. I’m Father Christmas, so shut it!