by Alan Townendcowardice and thought I was depriving a young child of his Christmas
present from some loving relative. I rubbed the package with a towel
and ran back to number 56. Running down the path in the true spirit
of the season, clutching the precious bundle in my hand I thrust it
through the letter box expecting to hear a happy yelp of surprise
from young Richard. As I ran away to the sound of the barking dog, I
ran by accident into the garden gate just in time to hear a voice
shouting: «Master Richard! When will that woman realise I'm over
fifty and can't stand hand knitted socks!»