‘Luuurve is a many trousered thing…’

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“Who do you think it’s from?”

“Er, Father Christmas. Possibly someone from beyond the grave. Mum, I don’t know because you have got it and I therefore have not opened it.”

Ten minutes later

At last she has gone. She hung about a bit hoping I would let her know who it was from, looking at my things and saying meaningless stuff like, “What is my black leather jacket doing in your wardrobe? And my Chanel bag?” Utterly pointless things. Tutting and carrying on like a tutting thing in a tut shop. But I just looked at her until she left.

Five minutes later

I am so nervy that I can’t open the letter. My name is written in capitals so I can’t even recognise the handwriting.

What if it is from Masimo to say that having seen me scamper off at high speed like a prat he has decided he is not a free man for me?

Or what if it is from Robbie, saying that he has always loved me and will I be his?

Or what if it is from Oscar, trainee Blunder Boy, asking me on “a date” to go skateboarding? Or what if it is… Oh, shut up, shut up.

Two minutes later

When you are having a tizz in Nervy B. Central, Call-me-Arnold the vicar says you should always ask the question, “What would Baby Jesus do?”

One minute later

I don’t know why, though, because clearly Jesus’s dad is like a huge owly-type person, beaking about looking at everyone and everything, even when they are on the loo. As Big G is omniPANTSient and set the whole thing up in the first place, he would know who had written the letter and what was in it already, without having to open it. Or send it, even. So what is the point of asking what Baby Jesus would do?

Actually, when you think about it on the whole, life is a charade and a sham. It’s a bit like mime, isn’t it? Why do we have to guess what is going on? Why can’t Big G just tell us and get it over with?

Five minutes later

What if the note is from Masimo and it just says, “Arrivederci”?

Or from Robbie and it says, “Oy, Georgia, stop looning about after me, you are only embarrassing yourself. I am deeply in love with a wombat that I met in Kiwi-a-gogo land and will play my guitar in rivers only for her. In fact I have written a song for Gayleen (the wombat), which I enclose. It is called ‘You are my marsupial, my only marsupial, you make me happy when skies are grey, you’ll never know dear, how much I love you, please don’t take your furry face away’.”

Ten minutes later

I have never had what is known as great letters from Robbie when you come to think about it. The first one he wrote me was to dump me and suggest I go out with Dave the Laugh.

Two minutes later

I wish I could phone the Hornmeister up now. This is when his Horn advice would be really good. Things have been a bit weird between us since he started seeing Emma. She’s so nice, it’s depressing.

Maybe that’s why he’s going out with her – because she’s so nice he doesn’t know how to dump her.

Or maybe he likes nice people. Even her hair is nice. And her nose. How annoying is that?

And she’s nice to me.

I hate that.

Ten minutes later

Perhaps I can sort of sense what the words say by looking at the envelope and using my psychedelic powers. I saw some geezer in a frilly shirt on TV who said that we could all tap into our clairvoyant side if we just concentrated.

I am looking at the envelope and concentrating.

Five minutes later

My eyes have gone all blurry. Oh excellent, I am going blind. That’s perfect, isn’t it? Now even if I open the letter I won’t know what it says or who it’s from.