Ah. Christmas the time of cheery carollers, sleigh bells, and happy families. Or, looking at it less romantically, the time of burnt dinners, family fights, and divorce.

That first Christmas together. That’s the one that sets the pattern for all the others. Do not go to his mother’s. Or yours. Ideally, see no one and do a lot of sex.

Given that that isn’t happening, here are a few ground rules.

1. Do not be cozened into buying them tins of mixed sweeties. There will be at least two thirds that nobody likes. You will be reduced to feeding them to the dog in August.

2. Booze. Do not buy eggy stuff. It looks like snot and it tastes like snot, and nobody will drink it. If granny likes a Snowball. Buy a couple of ready made ones in pouches. She will only go to sleep with her face in the sprouts if you give her proper booze.

3. The Turkey. You do not need something the size of a Shetland Pony to feed you, your husband, and granny. Small is beautiful. After all nobody really likes turkey anyway.

4. Cooking. There’s a lot of rot talked about Christmas dinner. Do plenty of roast potatoes and a ton of them little sausages wrapped in bacon, because that’s all anybody eats.

5 Most importantly. The Punch. It should be very strong. And to begin with it should taste nice. After The Queen’s Speech it pretty much stops mattering. By that time people will drink meths.

And that is the secret of Christmas in a nutshell (NB do not buy nuts. Somebody – usually your new husband’s cousin from Reading – will inevitably display the symptoms of anaphylactic shock if you do).

Granny’s Punch

1 litre brandy
1 litre vodka
1 bottle ginger wine
1 litre pineapple juice
1 litre ginger ale
1 net of baby oranges
1 large tin pineapple chunks
Loads of glacé cherries
Punch bowl/clean plastic bucket/WHY
Ice

Cut the oranges in halves, then throw everything in the punch bowl. Drink much of it yourself.

Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is a whodunit set in a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules. If you missed previous episodes you can start reading from the beginning.

Julia awoke to the vicious burn of smelling salts and found herself in a windowless room, lit only by a dim ceiling light and a squat brazier full of red-hot coals. She was strapped to some sort of a wooden contrivance with her legs apart and all her weight hanging from her wrists, that which were bound to the crossbar with tight leather thongs. To say she was uncomfortable was to understate the case, and she had the feeling things weren’t going to get any better.
“Is she awake?” it was an educated female voice, rendered thick by excitement and bloodlust.”
A big hand lifted Julia’s head and a dark face stared down at her.
“Oh yes, she’s awake.”
Julia heard the whiplash before she felt its bite. Part of her felt as if she had fallen through time and was back in the hands of the Mongol slavers. It was as if her life was repeating the horror like a sick rerun. She set her teeth and concentrated on not making a sound. It was difficult, as the cut of the whip was exacerbated by the drag of her own weight on her wrists. It would have been only too easy to pander to the desires of whoever was wielding the whip, but she wouldn’t give in. The beating went on for some time and Julia could feel the blood running down her back. Suddenly it stopped, and she heard the sound of harsh breathing instead.
A man spoke, in the thick accent that took Julia back to her youth.
“Enough. Let her hang for now.”

The ‘Pit’ had its uses and in the past Dai had found the fact that Bryn knew and was on good terms with a fair few of those condemned to work there, meant that he could get hold of information that others might be left waiting for – or might never get at all. Those who monitored and reviewed the surveillance data were not inclined to be so helpful when asked to provide evidence of some minor misdemeanour by a fellow Briton. They were also notorious at spending hours trawling through surveillance that they knew would be of no value, if they felt so inclined. The abduction of a Roman was not likely to be something they would be pulling any stops out for and Dai was not surprised to find the Tribune had been given the standard response that they were working on all possible sources and had instigated overtime to ensure sufficient eyes were available. Which was at least half true.
Bryn had looked sick when Dai told him what had happened to Julia.
“You know she could already be d-”
“Yes. And I also know the longer we have the Pit playing the anti-Roman card, the higher the chance of that will be.”
Bryn chewed his lower lip for a moment.
“Can you stake me a couple of tickets to the Game?”
Dai stared at his decanus.
“Can I -?”
“Not for me. Just it never hurts to have something to offer people as an incentive – and a bit of a competition with a nice prize is incentive.”
It would cost him over a month’s salary and be completely beyond the pocket of Bryn who had a family to support on half as much and probably in dream territory for those paid little more than a minimum-wage pittance to work in the Pit. He didn’t hesitate longer than that thought before nodding.
Less than an hour later Bryn and Dai were in the dark recesses of the Pit looking at the rear view of two men running. One with something slung over his shoulder.
“So why do we think that’s her?” Dai was puzzled.
“If we run it back to where the bloke carrying her changes shoulders, there’s just a glimpse of two bare feet,” the operator explained patiently.
The man brought up a still on another screen, and Dai felt anger burning his throat at the sight of what had to be Julia’s feet poking out of some sort of heavy duty binbag. He turned his attention back to the moving picture.
“That’s Via Flumen,” Bryn said pointing to a low arch where the two men vanished from view. “And if they’ve gone into that estate of boxed up insulae and allies, the Caligula’s a gods-forsaken maze.”
“No surveillance?”
“You don’t waste money watching rats shitting, fornicating and fighting each other, do you?”
Dai stared at the image and tried to catch the thought that was playing at the edge of his mind. He was suddenly sure there was something he was missing. He signalled, and the operator ran the piece again. A small dog pelted out of the alley just as the two men reached it and went in. Then his heart rate shot up.
“Filius canis, how could I be so stupid, Bryn get us transport to that place and I want all our people there when we get there.” He jabbed his finger at the arch on the screen marking the entrance to the estate. Then as Bryn obeyed, Dai used his wristphone. “Edbert? I need you to go to Via Flumen entrance of the Caligula Insulae Estate – and bring Canis and Lupo, they have work to do.”

Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

I dream this night
Of snowflakes white
And frost that bites
I smell the smell
Of pine as well
Whereat I dwell
In my mind’s eye
The Christmas pie
Goes dancing by
I dream today
Of games to play
And words to say
Oh Christmas Muse
Whose shiny shoes
Give one the blues
I dream of thee
Incessantly
Along with Street of Quality.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

They left the house as one party – with the addition of Cariad’s two children, who Julia was pleased to find were both quite delightful, taking after their mother in looks, but seeming to have their father’s easy-going disposition. They had an escort: servants carefully sanding the paving in front of them and a ceremonial guard clearing a path through the seething crowd. Julia craned her neck to look at the three Llewellyn boys, who walked hand in hand with Baer behind them like an anxious mother hen. She smiled at the girl and gave her a thumbs up. Then they were in the great open atrium of the temple of the Divine Diocletian where the brazen gongs were just sounding. Caudinus excused himself to join the group of officials at the steps of the sanctuary.
The service droned on and on. Julia was very glad of woollen stockings and fleece-lined boots as the marble floor struck like ice underfoot. As the priests reached the loudest part of the invocation, she slipped one hand into the pocket of her cloak and came out with chewy caramel sweets, which she passed quietly to the children. Enya looked a question.
“About now,” Julia whispered, “my grandmother always gave me a sweetie, otherwise I started to flag and fidget. So I thought…”
Enya smiled radiantly. “Genius.”
Eventually, the long religious ritual was over, punctuated by chants and hymns everyone knew. Traditional shouts of ‘Salve Diocletian!’ and ‘Diocletian Invictus!’ and from the less religious: ‘Saturnalia Optima!’ rang around the crowd.
Julia was relieved when Caudinus’ soldiers escorted them to a reserved table at the edge of the atrium, where they could sit and sip mulled wine sheltered by a colonnade and wait for the Magistratus to join them once the final formalities were completed. An outside heater warmed the air enough to take the chill, but not enough to actually warm anyone. Julia thought the children looked cold and tired, even Baer.
“We may have to stay,” she said decisively, “but the children should be indoors.” She deputised a group of soldiers to take the little ones back to the Magistratus house, where the family was due to dine, asking that they be given a hot drink when they got there. The children left under escort, Baer gripping the hands of the youngest Llewellyn boys. Julia wished she could go with them. She cupped her hands around her mug of mulled wine and sighed.
“Domina?” Julia looked up to see one of Caudinus’ guard of honour standing with a respectful expression on his face. “Domina, the Magistratus asks if you would be willing to deputise for your husband in the gift-giving ceremony.”
So it was that Julia found herself a reluctant participant in the ceremonial at the temple, joining the select group of Romans who were presenting the official gifts from the City of Viriconium to the Divine Diocletian on his dies natalis to show their love and appreciation for his beneficence and to bribe him into keeping it going for another year. She tried to suppress such impious thoughts as she stood in line, breath frosting the air in front of her. She had been asked to present a small silver boar, symbolic of a prophecy made to Diocletian by a druidess about how he would come to power. Julia wondered if that was why the Druids were largely left alone by the Roman authorities even today. Not acknowledged, but not actively persecuted unless they openly declaimed anti-Roman theology. It was the only religion she knew of in all the Empire that did not bend knee to the divinity of Diocletian and yet it was permitted to practice its rites unhindered. Then it was her turn to step up and place the statuette on the table of offerings, bow her head in respect and walk carefully backwards to her place as the rest of the gifts were given and long speeches of thanks were made by lesser city luminaries.
Even Caudinus had to put a hand up to his mouth to smother a yawn. But then Julia knew he had been attending endless civic functions, ceremonies and receptions over the last four days of Saturnalia. Far from being a holiday in the sense people usually thought of one, like most other feriae stativae, Saturnalia was a five-day round of official appearances for the Magistratus. Dai had deputised at two such, uncomfortably toga clad with Julia in jewels and stola.
After a final blessing, the doors of the sanctuary were closed behind the shivering priests, who scuttled inside bearing with them the expensive offerings of a grateful city.

From Dying as a Druid by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

A gathered hush
Like a silent breath
Condensed in freezing air
The night sky
Ruled by a blazing star
That they say was never there.

A stable scene
With shepherds standing
All around the manger.
A newborn child
Whose wise mother knows
And whose father sees the danger.

A thousand legends
Born and fade, some carved
In stone, some blown away like sand
Each page written
In blood or ink – or tears that cleave
As history turns the leaves.

And yet again
Another child born
A hostage to fortune.
Princess or pauper
God or humble clay
Mortality awaits each in their day.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Dear Reader Who Writes,

It is that time of year again when tinsel and fake snow are seen liberally strewn over windows and every house in the neighbourhood is illuminated by thousands of watts worth of multicoloured flashing bulbs. Giant inflatable Santas bend at the waist as they slowly prolapse onto the lawn and herds of plastic reindeer can be found grazing on every municipal greensward.

Ah yes, Christmas!

The time every writer remembers the magic as a child of seeing the Christmas tree lit up after hearing swearing coming from the front room for an hour. Or the apparently endless amounts of food on a groaning board, whilst relatives are sitting, groaning, bored and picking fights for the sake of it. Or the sound of carols through the shopping-mall loudspeakers being interrupted by non-sequitur advertisements and announcements. Or the excitement of unwrapping presents so quickly replaced by the despair as another Christmas jumper hand knitted by Great Aunt Tracey is revealed beneath the gaudy paper or a pair of thermal, odour-reducing socks in vibrant tartan from Mumsie.

This, dear RWW, is the very magic you need to ensure you capture on the tip of your quill and then spread in decorative loops and swirls of language to fill the pages of that essential for every aspiring author – the Seasonal Short.

To be honest, a wise beginner will start with the lesser festivals of the writing calendar. Maybe a little romantic flash fiction for Valentine’s, working through to a Halloween Horror so that by the time you reach the height of over-played, sentimentalism that is Christmas literature, you will have the technique somewhat practised.

But fear not, mes petites, even if you have not been preparing, even if you have never set pen to paper or finger to keyboard in a literary endeavour afore this moment, follow my three golden rules and you will be in with as much of a chance as the most famous author.

Rule One: Make it Maudlin.

Do not stop at soppy and sentimental, instead toboggan through the more flaccid emotions and pitch straight into the point where Merry marries Melancholy and keeps up an affair on the side with Nostalgia.

Rule Two: Make it Short.

This is Christmas. Your reader will be well sozzled, exhausted from family rows and trying to avoid the Queen’s speech. Their attention span will not be long. A novella is too long.

Rule Three: Make it Shiny.

Use lots of words like ‘sparkle’, ‘glitter’, ‘glow,’ ‘luminescence’, ‘coruscation’, ‘shimmer’, ‘gleam’ and ‘twinkle’.

So there, in a Nutcracker Suite, dear Reader Who Writes, is my Christmas gift to you. Use it wisely and every future festive season will bring you joyous prosperity from your literary endeavours.

Happy Christmas.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

Becca offered a silent prayer as the engine failed to catch then did. The car was too old but she couldn’t manage without it. Today, her day off, she had been temping as a receptionist. Tomorrow it was back to an early start as a home carer. But now she had to collect the kids from her mother’s. A neighbour’s daughter would babysit for her evening shift waitressing. 

On the radio, a slimy politician sucking on his silver spoon was saying that poor people should get a job.

She wondered how many jobs she needed not to be poor anymore.

E.M. Swift-Hook

It’s cold here, cold as the hiss of an angered angel. Cold as the breast of a barren woman. But we are not made to mind the cold, I and my trillion brethren. We float gently down to blanket the stable where a baby cries and a man stares uncomprehendingly as his virgin bride presents him with an unexpected son.

It’s cold and we band together to hold in what little heat the beasts generate with their breath.

My brothers are glad to be of use to him they are calling the king, but I am afraid. I have seen stars where there should be none. I have heard strange voices singing. I have watched sheepherders bring presents of food and woollen blankets. I have seen camels from the painted lands of the east bring old men bearing unsuitable gifts.

They say snowflakes are individual. That no two of us are the same. But they say a lot of things. I look around me to see million upon million of my siblings locking arms and settling. I am the only one who does not fit.

I am a sad snowflake because I know that tomorrow will bring a warm wind from the south and we will all die…

©️ Jane Jago

The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…

When the poor and unloved f-bombs died
I’ll admit that I lay down and sighed
For the poor orphaned f**k
That ran out of luck
I looked into my beer and I cried

© jane jago

…. or ‘How To Speak Typo’ by Jane Jago

anythign (adjective) – of or pertaining to thighs

bluche (verb) – to walk as if constipated

celebreate (noun) – a celibate who has weekends off

dup of tes (noun geographic) – a group of islands in the south seas notable for bad dentistry and useless morality tales

effiencent (adjective) – of beer, bubbly but clouded and very yeasty

eriting (verb) – the peculiar practice of placing a peanut up one nostril and whistling Dixie

graet (verb) of authors to proclaim one’s own small talent a lot louder than it deserves

nekkis (adjective) – wearing oddly mismatched clothing at least two sizes too small

nlog (noun) – particularly hard fecal matter of an unfeasibly large circumference

overwhenling (adverb) – of locomotion unbearably slow and accompanied by rusty creaks

pricry (verb) – to sob uncontrollably when you can not afford something

siempunk (noun ) – tramp with good hair

usignt eh (noun) – a genus of small mammals famous for their short memories and large ears

wetaher (noun) – lachrymose woman

wodner (noun) one who is perpetually half sexually aroused. Hence the phrase ‘to walk like a wodner’

Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.