Puzzles And Games

PARTY GAMES

'Where's the blooming thing?' Santa searched the shed's spidery shelves, stacking boxes, then restacking them, shifting tools, and balancing tins and items that may be useful one day.

Not the real Santa, but a good likeness. Rotund, with a flowing white beard and a fondness for wearing red, he earned the nickname when he moved into the street.

However, he swiftly became a red devil, terrifying kids and irritating adults, constantly complaining about the most insignificant matters and reporting all and sundry to the local council, the police, and the newspaper.

Wielding rusty bolt cutters, Santa returned to his bicycle that was chained to the lamp post outside his house.

'When I find out who—′ The cutters slipped on the chain, grazing his knuckles. He swore as he wrapped a hanky around the wound. Tried again. Failed. Swore some more.

Jim, and his miniature chihuahua Tyson, watched from behind number eight's curtains. Jim toyed with the padlock key, and the dog expressed his approval with a broad grin.

A bag of dog poo, massive turds almost the size of Tyson, had been deposited on Jim's doorstep during the night. Not the first time Santa had wrongly accused Tyson of fouling the pavements.

Jim transferred the package to the doorstep of number fourteen. The Doberman living there was more likely the dumper of the massive doggie-do.

Santa's face was scarlet. Not the rosy glow of the gentleman who resides at the North Pole, and Santa's Grotto had never echoed with the blasphemy spilling from the lips of the white-haired soul maniacally attacking the chain.

He stood back, glowering. Why would someone do such an idiotic thing? Yes, he'd recently had 'words' with certain individuals regarding various issues. Litter, dog poo, loud music, slamming doors, drunken behaviour, undisciplined kids and empty bins left on the pavement for hours, sometimes several days, after the refuse collectors had called.

This, however, was downright petty, and he reckoned it was to do with the recent bag of dog excrement he had scooped up; he shuddered at the memory. He'd left it on ... whose doorstep was it this time? He couldn't remember and decided to create a spreadsheet once he had freed his perishing bike.

Patrick and his retriever, Tiny, watched the pantomime from behind the blinds of number eleven. Jim had accused Patrick's dog of being 'overly friendly' with Tyson. Tiny's amorous advances had traumatised poor Tyson, and the vet had prescribed an expensive tranquilliser. So, for a lark, Patrick had transferred the poo bag that had been left on his doorstep, to Jim's.

'Good game this, isn't it, Tiny?' Patrick sniggered. He had seen Jim nip along to Dobbie's house with the offending article. Tiny wasn't impressed. His nose was pressed against the window painting the glass with sticky, wet smears as he lustfully eyed Tiny sitting at the window across the road, deliberately ignoring him.

The Doberman's door opened.

The owner of number fourteen stepped out onto the poo bag.

Her spiked heel pierced the plastic.

Her weight squished the whoopsie across the step.

'Oopsie,' chorused Jim, Patrick and several other dog owners who had been involved in this game of Pass-the-parcel.