heads.
“You are asking me to believe that you know nothing about this?” She reached into a drawer and produced exhibit A:
“I like it,” said Spocky. “An early Matisse, perhaps?”
Dawn dredged some anger from the back of her throat. “Button it, sunshine. You can take this as a formal verbal warning. You three jokers are walking a tightrope, literally.”
“I’m not wearing it,” said Lucy, pushing the suit across the table.
Gordon pushed it back. “Ye have tae.” He was already sporting a red felt hat and a candy floss beard.
“I’m not wearing a beard.”
“Of course you don’t wear the beard. You’re Missy Clause.”
“Missy Clause?” asked Buzz, distracted from Macaulay Culkin’s silent struggle on the Railway’s sixteen inch corner TV (they hadn’t had satellite at the Railway Arms since the people from Sky caught them using a black-market decoding device).
“Santa’s wife,” said Gordon.
“And what’s her role?” asked Lucy. “What does ‘Missy Clause’ do while Santa’s bringing joy to children everywhere?”
“Makes the tea,” said Gordon.
Lucy shoved the suit back across the table. “No thanks.”
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