The Twelve Days of Christmas: 1
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: a partridge in a pear tree.
As I stepped into the communal hallway and turned to sift through the ever-growing pile of unclaimed mail, I became aware that there was a tall object standing at the bottom of the stairs. It was covered in cheap and gaudy wrapping paper. My true love’s wrapping skills had not improved since last Christmas, so I could tell immediately that it was a tree — although rather bigger than the unassuming bonsai I’d had in mind for a corner of my living-room. Oh well. It’s the thought that counts.
I hastily tore the wrapping off the gift. It was a pear tree. And sitting on one of its branches, frozen into a catatonic state of utter terror thanks to its journey through the parcel delivery service, was a partridge.
The partridge stared at me, unblinking. I stared back at the partridge. It’s not every day that you become the recipient of a large bird, and if you do then it’s normally oven-ready and delivered by Tesco.
“I didn’t even realise that partridges ate pears. What do partridges eat? What the hell am I going to do with a partridge?”
The partridge didn’t answer. It did, however, put its head at a jaunty angle and stare at me quizzically, as if similar questions about what the hell it was going to do with a human were running through its mind.
Some hours later, standing in the sweltering kitchen, I heard the front door slam. My true love had finally arrived home. I realised with horror that I still had partridge feathers in my hair and that my shirt was covered in blood. Nobody had prepared me for the fact that killing a partridge with my bare hands would be such a messy business, but I felt certain that my true love would understand.
Mixing bowl and wooden spoon in hand, I shouted through to the living-room, “How do you like your pear stuffing?”
When no answer came, I put my head round the door. Nothing. No one there. Just the word ‘MURDERER’ scrawled on the wall in fresh partridge blood.
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