A CHRISTMAS TALE IN 25 PARTS: PART TWENTY-FIVE

Well, it’s Christmas morning and we’ve reached the final part of our merry tale and, because this is a Christmas story, it really ought to have a “happy” ending, so, if you are going to find one, then this is probably the best place to look. Especially, I suppose, if it’s an ending to the story I’ve been recently telling that you’re looking for today.

And furthermore, whilst this morning is probably not the time or the place to discuss the relative merits of what the word “happy” might mean from several different points of view, or whether an “ending” only really works in a story-telling context and not in “real-life” where a story might get concluded but life itself carries on, we’re not going to dwell upon it. After all, our story needs an ending and, seeing as we have reached part twenty-five, it’s probably a good idea to allow it to have one.

Of course, as its “author” (if that’s not getting above my station), I cannot expect anyone to be actually taking the time to be reading this, especially on such a busy morning as today is for so many people, but I can at least try to provide anyone who might choose to with that option, and make just one more vague attempt at making my own humble effort to entertain you in the midst of so many other distractions.

As to that “happy” ending, well here it is.

To be perfectly honest with you, Mr Snatch didn’t change all that much after his experiences, because the Mr Snatches of this world seldom do, but he did change just enough to make enough of a difference, and perhaps that’s really the point. If each and every one of us can change just a little bit, then the world might be a better place.

After spending a few hours just chatting to the girl whose life he had saved from the brink of extinction, Mr Snatch found out that Olive was more than just a faceless nameless nobody but a real, genuine human being with hopes and needs and fears and worries just like everybody else, and that made him think about her and, perhaps surprisingly about everyone else who worked for him and, ultimately, about everyone else that he was sharing the good old world with.

He was always going to have that cynical streak, and the occasional moment of impatience and disappointment. He was always going to remain ambitious and perhaps just a little bit ruthless too, at least in matters of business. After all, he had responsibility for all of the hopes and needs and fears and worries of his entire staff to worry about along with his own, but he did at least approach it with a little more humility.

After all, when you’ve seen the whole world reduced to dust and how insignificant your legacy can be in the face of its obliteration in the crucible of time, you start to think less of such things and give more attention to the “here” and the “now” instead of what and whether people might think of you once you’ve gone, and, over the years, old Mr Snatch did really finally start to earn that “Humanitarian of the Year” Award.

And things did improve for Olive too. Her life had its problems and they were never going to vanish overnight. After all, nobody ends up living in a hostel with their kids without having had at least a few hiccups along the way, but things did start to get better from that day. As she headed off in the company limousine for her joyful reunion with her children on that Christmas morning, courtesy of a long-suffering chauffeur who was still waiting for the call to come anyway (but got a huge – and rather unexpected - bonus for his trouble), Mr Snatch had already made arrangements for them to have a far better Christmas than they ever expected to, and the general welfare of his entire staff became very much his business over the coming months, and became very much the model for many of his fellow business leaders who kept wanting to create new and interestingly-named Awards for him, all of which he rejected as the pointless self-aggrandising nonsense that he knew they were.

Mr Snatch found that he was just happy doing as much good as he could with the wealth he had, and finally learned the lesson that might be obvious to you, dear reader, but can take a long time to learn; that real wealth and riches really are perhaps those which are more spiritual in nature.

But if you are wealthy, then it’s a damned sight easier to do some good than it might be for someone who’s struggling along, and, whilst it can be very tempting to do your level best to get even more wealth for yourself instead of trying to do some actual genuine good from your position of privilege, then it’s never the worst thing to remind yourself, every once in a while, and certainly around Chrimbletide, that there are limits to the amount of “stuff” that you can accumulate and that you really cannot take it with you.

All of which probably means something or other, that may, or may not, be all rather profound, but which is probably not the sort of idealistic nonsense anyone wants to be told upon Christmas Day, even if that is possibly the one day of the year when that sort of idealistic nonsense is most likely to be understood and appreciated, so I think that it’s time that I shut up now, and let the rest of the story unfold as it should, which doesn’t take long and can be summed up in one, mercifully short, paragraph.

In the far future, Mr Snatch got home from a very full and happy Christmas Day and settled down in his favourite armchair with a glass of something tasty to watch another rerun of one of his favourite Christmas episodes from one of his favourite sitcoms. Before the programme started, he glanced for a moment out of the window to watch the full and active world, which did not die, passing outside his humble and snug abode, and smiled with contentment.

Happy Christmas everyone.

Martin A W Holmes, Christmas 2012