麻豆社

Tis the night before Christmas
And three women gather
To speak of a baby
And its mysterious father...

Many thanks to Archers listener Vivian Wells on who penned this work of impromptu festive genius!

It is a dark and stormy Christmas night but the moon appears through the clouds to light the path as and her familiar (Hilda Ogden) walk through the churchyard. As she rounds the corner and passes Jack’s grave, she spies and waiting for her. They bow down in supplication.
“Did all go according to plan, Mistress?” Shula asks.
“Of course,” Peggy replies. “I knew would be unable to resist a gift of chocolate-covered fungi.” She places her 1970s ghetto blaster on the Tomb of the Silent Characters.
“Why-aye; but we must ensure she keeps eatin’ them,” Rooth says.
“They are an essential part of the process,” Peggy snaps. “No need to state the blindingly obvious all the time, Rooth.”
“Me cows – "
“Silence! We’ll have no dairy-related tedium here!”
“Of course. Sorry, Oh Great One.”
“I had quite a job getting out of my holiday,” Shula says.
“Norway,” Ruth sighs.
“No, I really did. In the end I had to tell that I was allergic to Northern Lights.
“Do you think she suspects?” Peggy’s voice is sharp and clear, belying her 192 years on the planet.
“Aww Gnaww,” Rooth replies. “She still thinks it’s .”
“Every care must be taken of her. She must be indulged even more than usual. You must reinforce her sense of entitlement, her self-righteousness,” Peggy says.
“Me and are pretty good at that already, to be fair.”
“But we must ALL make her feel special;” Shula whinnies, “we should make her believe she is a queen, that no woman has ever had a baby before.”
Peggy coughs. The damp churchyard air is undoubtedly bad for her ancient chest: “And at the fullness of the moon, around Michaelmas – Shula, you can check that, you’re up on all dates churchy. I don’t take a lot of notice nowadays. I only go along to give my hats an airing. Some of sermons make my eyes water – with boredom.”
Shula laughs: “Ha! My cunning disguise of piety has many uses. But neigh, ‘twil be before Michaelmas. More likely nearer the feast of the Assumption or –"
“Whatevs,” Peggy snaps. “And his name shall be –"
“Cripes! Here’s Alan,” Shula gasps, “He must have been fiddling with his reredos again.”
The shadowy figure of the vicar looms upon them.
“We were just looking for Hilda,” Peggy simpers. “Weren’t we, girls? Luckily we found her here, Alan.”
They look to where Hilda is furiously at work digging up the grave of Walter Gabriel; not an easy task as he is spinning in it.
“You think I don’t know what you’re up to?” Alan snarls. “Do you take me for a nincompoop?”
“To be honest, I always thought you were a bit nincompoopish, Pet,” says Rooth.
“Oh dear," Peggy plays the poor-old-lady card. “I’m feeling a little faint.”
“That doesn’t wash with me. Not any more….but have no fear, ladies, for I too am secretly evil with a capital E.”
“Soon shall come the Antichrist! Praise be!” Rooth and Shula chorus.
They all form a circle and dance in the moonlight.
“And his name,” shrieks an ecstatic Peggy, as Ed Sheeran assures her that he’s in love with the shape of her, “shall be Lucifer Deevid Tobee Beelzbub Archer!”
“Amen” says Alan, as at last they collapse exhausted on to the sodden ground.
Tum-ti-tum..

If Dickens were an Archers listener... Thank you Vivian Wells for penning this story on .