The Nanny Piggins Guide to Conquering Christmas Read online

  ‘Pig?’ asked the security guard as he made his way through the tightly packed crowd of disaffected photography clients. When he got to the front he saw Nanny Piggins for the first time. ‘Nanny Piggins, you’re back. How are you?’

  ‘Stephen, how lovely to see you, darling,’ said Nanny Piggins as she held out her trotter and allowed him to kiss it.

  ‘You’ve stayed away too long,’ said the security guard, waggling his finger at Nanny Piggins. ‘It’s months since I’ve had to throw you out.’

  ‘I know,’ agreed Nanny Piggins. ‘I would come more often if your baker would sharpen up his ideas about how to make choux pastry.’

  ‘So, how are we going to handle this?’ asked Stephen the security guard. ‘May I escort you to the bus stop or do you want to wrestle a bit first? I have to say I’d prefer not to do any wrestling today. I strained my back yesterday dragging a bear out of the honey aisle of the supermarket.’

  Nanny Piggins turned on her brother. ‘Boris, you didn’t tell me you came to the shopping centre yesterday.’

  ‘I was ashamed,’ said Boris.

  ‘About being dragged out of the honey aisle for creating a disturbance?’ guessed Derrick.

  ‘No, I forgot to pick up some free samples from the bakery for Nanny Piggins,’ confessed Boris.

  ‘I forgive you,’ said Nanny Piggins kindly as she gave her brother an affectionate hug. ‘I know honey makes you brain-addled. It is the bees’ fault for making their regurgitation so delicious. All right, Stephen,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Today I shall agree to be escorted, provided that means I get a ride on your electric golf cart.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Stephen the security guard, offering Nanny Piggins his arm. ‘I may only be a security guard at a mall, but I know how to treat a lady.’

  The crowd parted as Nanny Piggins was led away. But before she stepped out of the grotto Nanny Piggins turned back to address the elf. ‘Don’t think you have evaded my wrath. I may be making a strategic retreat now for the sake of Stephen’s bad back, but I fully intend to return and crush your seasonal money-gouging operation.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ accused the elf.

  ‘Yes, I am. I’m glad you caught on so quickly,’ said Nanny Piggins, before leaning round the elf to address Santa as well. ‘And don’t think I’m letting you off just because you’re old and you give out toys. I’m busting up this racket of yours and sending you back to the North Pole where you can concentrate on making toys and spending the holiday season with your wife like you should.’

  The crowd cheered.

  ‘Anyone who wants to have a good Santa photo taken,’ announced Nanny Piggins, ‘can meet me in the car park at 10 am tomorrow morning and, unlike a certain weak-bladdered old man, when I say I will be there at ten o’clock I will be there at ten o’clock, and there will be no excuses about “feeding reindeer”.’

  And so the following morning Nanny Piggins set up a photography studio in the car park of the shopping centre. Then she had to move it across the street to a vacant lot, when Stephen the security guard was sent out to throw her off the premises.

  Regardless of the weeds, empty tin cans and general waste strewn about, Nanny Piggins’ Santa Photography Business was soon a roaring success. For a start she was much more photogenic than an elderly overweight man in a Santa suit. She had her suit fitted and tailored by one of the finest fashion designers in Milan. (He owed Nanny Piggins a favour after she bit his mother-in-law on the leg for him once.) And Nanny Piggins had a much more creative flare for photography than the 23-year-old university students the shopping centre had hired cheaply. There is a lot more to photography than knowing how to point and focus a camera.

  First of all, never underestimate the importance of good lighting. The brighter the light, the less blotchy or wrinkly people appear. As Nanny Piggins said, ‘If the Queen of England were to have her photo taken standing five metres away from the glare of a super-nova, even she would look like the beautiful young woman who first appeared on the back of a coin in 1956.’

  The next most important thing is choosing the right pose. When it comes down to it, sitting on someone’s lap is a very odd decision indeed. ‘Encouraging children to sit on a strange man’s lap just because he breaks into their house once a year and gives them presents is a very inappropriate message to send to children,’ said Nanny Piggins.

  Nanny Piggins’ Santa photos were much more dramatic. Children could choose between wrestling with Santa (her personal favourite – she’d had a bright red, fur-trimmed wrestling leotard made up specially), being attacked by ninjas while reading your present list to Santa, helping Santa deactivate a nuclear bomb, or trying to outrun Santa as you are attacked by a bear (Boris). All the alternatives were very popular with children. Indeed, several came back to pose for one of each. One three-year-old girl enjoyed being attacked by Boris so much she kept giggling and trying to hug him, which, of course, he enjoyed tremendously as well.

  Nanny Piggins soon had a huge queue of customers lining up around the block. And not just because they wanted to have their photograph taken. The customers actually enjoyed waiting in line because Nanny Piggins provided unlimited supplies of cake and hot chocolate, and every fifteen minutes she and Boris would stop taking photos to perform a two-minute version of the Nutcracker ballet, with added violence so boys could enjoy it too.

  By two o’clock in the afternoon the general manager of the shopping centre had come across the road with the impertinent elf and Stephen the security guard to talk to Nanny Piggins. Naturally Nanny Piggins made them join the end of the line and pay for a photograph. (She only charged $1 per photo. She made no profit, but only needed to cover the price of the cake ingredients.)

  ‘Please, you have to put an end to this,’ pleaded the manager as the camera flash went off and he wrestled with Nanny Piggins. (Normally she just pretended to wrestle with the children, but she was really twisting the manager into a cobra lock.)

  ‘Why should I?’ asked Nanny Piggins, yanking his arm around behind his ear and jabbing her trotter in a painful pressure point. ‘It’s not my fault I am brilliant at photography and much better at being Santa than Santa himself.’

  ‘But there’s nobody in the shopping centre,’ said the manager. ‘Think of all the shopkeepers who aren’t making any money.’

  ‘Pish!’ scoffed Nanny Piggins. ‘Christmas shouldn’t be about making money. It should be about overeating and judging people when they give you unpleasant presents such as underwear or books.’

  ‘But if the shopkeepers don’t make any money they won’t be able to support their families,’ argued the manager.

  ‘Piffle,’ countered Nanny Piggins. ‘Marjorie from the sock shop has come over to have her photo taken three times already, although I think that’s mainly because she likes my lemon tarts. And everybody from the sports shoe shop came over and had a group photo of me rescuing them from Boris.’

  ‘Please,’ begged the manager. ‘What can I do to persuade you to stop luring all our customers away from the shopping centre?’

  ‘If I may, sir,’ interrupted Stephen the security guard. ‘Could I negotiate on your behalf?’

  ‘Please do,’ sobbed the manager.

  ‘Nanny Piggins, you look fabulous today,’ said Stephen. He knew how to begin a negotiation.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Nanny Piggins. She could not fault him, he was entirely right.

  ‘Would you please be so kind as to shut down your photography studio, come back to the shopping centre and train our elves how to take spectacular action photos at reasonable prices that everyone can enjoy?’ asked Stephen.

  ‘Why on earth would I do that?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

  Stephen turned to his manager. ‘Do I have permission to offer her anything?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, yes of course,’ said the manager, dabbing his brow. ‘Anything to make this end.’

  Stephen turned back to Nanny Piggins. ‘You can have as many free samples fr
om the free sample box on the bakery counter as you like.’

  There was silence from the crowd as everyone simultaneously gasped, then waited to see what Nanny Piggins would say.

  ‘Will I get a little laminated card to carry in my handbag, certifying this?’ Nanny Piggins asked.

  ‘Your photograph will be in the corner and the card will be signed by the centre manager himself,’ said Stephen.

  ‘It will?’ asked the manager. ‘I mean, it will, it will.’

  ‘Can I take my own photograph?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

  ‘Yes,’ said Stephen.

  ‘Then you’ve got a deal!’ exclaimed Nanny Piggins.

  ‘Hurray!’ cried the crowd, who knew they really should be getting back to their Christmas shopping.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ said the manager as he shook Nanny Piggins’ hand. ‘I was worried we’d have to pay you thousands of dollars to make this stop.’

  ‘My dear man,’ said Nanny Piggins ruthlessly. ‘If you think thousands of dollars is more than it would cost to buy me an unlimited amount of cake samples, you are about to discover that you are sadly mistaken.’

  And so, after consuming an alarming amount of sub-standard cake, Nanny Piggins set to work teaching the elves how to take real photos. She also gave Santa a short sharp bite on the shin to punish him for his price gouging. Then, to teach him a lesson, made him pay $39 for the honour of having his picture taken with her.

  ‘I want you to put that on your mantelpiece when you get home, Santa,’ said Nanny Piggins sternly, ‘to remind you that it is all very well to sit in judgement over the children of the world, deciding whether they are naughty or nice, but it is important that you should be a good boy too.’

  ‘Yes, Nanny Piggins,’ said Santa humbly. He did not really understand what had taken place in the previous 24 hours but, just as he knew when he met Mrs Claus for the first time, Santa realised he had met his match.

  Christmas is a wonderful time of year. But sometimes your friends and family can be less than wonderful (perhaps due to a shortage of chocolate in their diet) and they will get you unfortunate presents such as underwear that doesn’t fit, books you’ve already read, handkerchiefs that look like they’ve already been used or cash from a now defunct country. In these instances, do not despair. You can still gain some pleasure from your presents by playing Lava Floor.

  Lava Floor is an excellent game where you pretend that the entire floor of your house is made of incredibly hot molten rock, bubbling out of the earth’s crust. And if you accidentally touch it with the smallest part of your pinkie toe your whole leg will go up in flames and you will die instantly.

  However, anything that is on the floor is a safe island that you can stand on, protected from the lava, which is where your awful presents come in. Scatter your unwanted gifts liberally about the floor. Now anyone who is standing on a gift is safe. Anyone who touches the carpet is dead. And to make it really fun, you can push people off the gifts to a painful fiery demise. To start, simply shout ‘Go!’, then run around screaming while trying to push people into the lava and avoiding being shoved into the lethal magma yourself.

  The game isn’t just a fun way to while away the afternoon with friends. It is also a cathartic way to get some use out of your more ill-considered presents.

  (NB. This game does not go down well in the Roman city of Vesuvius. If you are holidaying there, stick to Scrabble.)

  When I was a little piglet, my wicked sister Wendy told me that the mince in mince pies was made of squashed flies. I will admit this did deter me at first, but upon trying my first mince pie, I decided that I was prepared to eat dead insects so I could enjoy this wonderful seasonal treat. But when I discovered that my sister had been lying and that the mince was actually made from something much more horrifying – fruit – I was astounded! How could something that tasted so good contain something so healthy? I can only assume that the liberal amounts of butter in the pastry, and sugar in the mince, somehow counteract the healthy benefits of the filling. Here is my recipe . . .

  INGREDIENTS

  1 tablespoon icing sugar

  225 grams self-raising flour

  a pinch of salt

  110 grams butter

  a little cold water

  1 jar of fruit mince

  METHOD

  1. Use your hands to rub the butter, self-raising flour, salt and icing sugar together until you get a mixture that is like breadcrumbs.

  2. Add a little water to bind the mixture into a dough, then knead until smooth.

  3. Roll out the dough on a floured surface.

  4. Use a round cookie cutter to cut out circles, then press these circles into a mince pie (or cupcake) tray.

  5. Fill the pastry casings with fruit mince (not dead flies).

  6. Then use a star-shaped cookie cutter to cut out the pastry lids. You can use a round cutter if you like. But I like to use stars so you can see the mince poking through. Plus you get a better pastry-to-fruit mince ratio.

  7. Bake in the oven at 200°C for about 25 minutes, or until the pastry goes a light golden brown.

  8. Remove from the oven and put on a cooling rack.

  And remember:

  DO NOT SHOVEL THE MINCE PIES INTO

  YOUR MOUTH STRAIGHTAWAY!

  Normally I am a big believer in gobbling baked goods the second they come out of the oven, but you must never do this with mince pies. The fruit mince is basically boiling sticky sugar syrup, bubbling away at 200°C. So if you put it straight in your mouth, not only will it burn you, it will stick to your tongue as you run around the kitchen squealing ‘Ow OOOW! Mmm yum. Ow OWIE!!!’

  9. Once cooled, eat and enjoy.

  (NB. One of the benefits of the star-shaped lids is that they are easy to pry off, so you can tuck a spoonful of cream or ice-cream underneath for added deliciousness.)

  These mince pies are extremely tasty, so feel free to tell your friends and family that they are full of dead flies. You’ll get to keep more for yourself that way.

  It all began innocently enough. Samson Wallace approached Nanny Piggins after school and asked if he could come over for a play date.

  ‘Why? What’s going on? What’s Nanny Anne up to?’ asked Nanny Piggins suspiciously.

  ‘Perhaps Samson just wants to come over to play,’ suggested Boris.

  ‘Of course Samson wants to come over to play,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘We’re a thousand times, if not a billion times, more fun to spend time with than their own nanny, Nanny Anne, which is precisely why I know she would never condone him coming over here and asking for a play date unless she had an ulterior motive.’ Nanny Piggins glared across the playground at Nanny Anne.

  Nanny Anne smiled sweetly back.

  ‘Did you see that?’ asked Nanny Piggins. ‘She smiled at me. She’s clearly up to something.’

  ‘She always smiles at everyone,’ said Derrick.

  ‘I bet she even smiles at the dentist as he pulls her wisdom teeth out,’ said Michael.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Samson. ‘Nanny Anne doesn’t have wisdom teeth. She says they are unseemly so she won’t tolerate them growing in her mouth.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Nanny Piggins as she considered the situation. ‘While my natural instinct is to say “yes” to this play date, to shelter this poor child from the overzealous hygiene of his own nanny for one short afternoon –’

  ‘Yes!’ exclaimed Samson excitedly.

  ‘I feel that it is also my civic duty to get to the bottom of whatever dastardly plan Nanny Anne is clearly up to,’ said Nanny Piggins.

  ‘You could try asking her?’ suggested Derrick.

  ‘Hmm, interesting idea,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘So you’re suggesting that I ask her what she is up to, then when she tells me a great big lie I count the number of times I see her accelerated pulse beat in her jugular vein to see if it spells out a message in morse code?’

  ‘No, I was just thinking you could ask her and see if she tells the truth,’ said
Derrick.

  ‘That plan is so ridiculously crazy,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘it just might work.’

  Nanny Piggins marched across the playground, the children following close behind, and confronted Nanny Anne. ‘What are you up to, you dreadful woman?’

  ‘You could try not being rude,’ suggested Samantha. ‘She might be more likely to tell you.’

  ‘Pish,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘You have to take a firm hand with all amoral degenerates.’ She confronted Nanny Anne once more. ‘Why are you trying to palm this child off on me for the afternoon? What is it that you intend to do that can only be done in secret?’

  ‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Nanny Anne with a saccharine smile. ‘Since Margaret is away on an Outward Bound expedition, teaching homeless youths how to eat with table manners while surviving in the wilderness, I simply thought that Samson might enjoy spending the afternoon at your house. It is so important to expose children to the reality of how other people live, I thought it would do him good.’

  ‘You’re lying!’ accused Nanny Piggins.

  ‘Nanny Piggins,’ chided Michael, ‘you know Isabella Dunkhurst prefers it if you accuse people of obfuscating the truth, as it is much easier for her to defend you against the subsequent slander charges.’

  ‘Well, I call a spade a spade,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Or a shovel. Because I don’t really know the difference. I’ve always found that trotters are a superior tool for digging holes.’

  ‘If you don’t want to take Samson for the afternoon,’ said Nanny Anne sweetly, ‘that’s just fine. I can imagine it must be exhausting for you to constantly be on the run from the police and mental health professionals. I’ll just send Samson down to the coaching clinic instead and they can spend three hours drilling him in maths.’

  ‘Noooooooooo!’ cried Nanny Piggins and Samson in unison.