A Christmas story

Recently, as I struggled through the crowded town, I saw a small boy running along behind his mother.

"Why's it called Christmas?" He shouted after her.

I didn't hear her answer, but it put me in mind of this story.


In the jeweller's window, half hidden among the Christmas tinsel, glitter and flashing fairy lights; the expensive rings and bracelets and necklaces; someone had placed a little wooden manger, with a tightly-swaddled figure of the Christchild. Anyone watching closely might have noticed that the tiny figure appeared to awaken, look around as though dazzled by his surroundings, start at the jangling sounds of the Christmas music  and the cries  of excited customers, and begin to sob. A manicured  hand reached into the window from behind, and swiftly removed the little manger, replacing it with an expensive bejewelled watch.

"Why are taking that out?" someone asked.

"Oh, this old thing? It looks out of place here. We don't need it any more, so I decided to bin it.  Besides, what's it got to do with Christmas?"