Orson Carte, our man on the tools, ponders life's great mysteries ...

I enjoy the notion of Christmas, this idea that you give things to people you love and they give things to you and then you sit down and eat lots of food and get a bit drunk and maybe have an argument you know you're going to regret later before you become grumpy because you've got indigestion and all that's on TV are the exact same movies they show every year which we are supposed to love but in reality are actually tedious beyond belief.

But the problem is that I have no lady love in my life, and I am estranged from my mother for reasons too complex to go into here (let's just say there was no way I was going to move out of home before she did), so Christmas festivities are rather bittersweet for me.

I mean, Guthead and I tend to buy each other a pint or two in the lead up to the big day, but that's about as far as it goes. In fact, Christmas is the time of year when I most feel like working.

I know, you're thinking that I work impossibly hard for the rest of the year – surely I'd appreciate some time off? And that's true. But I guess it's my superhuman dedication to the security industry which really takes over at Yule time.

I know it's not really the done thing, but I really like to engender an atmosphere of fear, or if at all possible, terror, in my local area during this holiday time.

I can't give you the exact details of my activities, but let's just say it involves enticing certain 'hooded' people of tender years to intensify their more outlandish behavioural traits, through the judicious use of bribery. This doesn't always result in more work for me, but it certainly livens up the neighbourhood, and gets people talking to one another, which is nice.

Young louts

Speaking of youngsters, I was on the bus the other day, when a young mother boarded. She had with her a pram, inside of which was a child of some kind, along with two ugly children, both of the male persuasion.

Almost immediately upon the bus embarking on its tortuous journey, these two boys began yelling and screaming at one another, hitting and punching and wrestling, as well as chewing gum noisily with their mouths open.

I was just about to offer them both outside for a fight (my cunning plan was to allow them off the bus first, then signal the driver to make a quick getaway before I had disembarked) when their mother opened her none-too-pretty mouth and honked: "Richard! Thomas! Shut up!! You'll wake up Harold!"

A fortuitous intervention, I think you'll agree. But look at those names again. As my brain slowly processed, I realised that this woman had named her children, effectively, Tom, Dick and Harry. This was either a tremendous private joke between parents, or an amazing oversight on their behalf. I'm still not entirely sure.

American beauty

This incident put me in mind of a friend I'd met some years back, when I was travelling the lonely roads of the south of the United States of America, looking for some kind of direction in life and nightly getting drunk on moonshine and the kindness of the local population.

Although my friend's name was unusual by our standards – he was christened Veracity Jones – he claimed to have met a beautiful young woman one night in his glorious youth, who had entertained him and educated him in the ways of adulthood, to put it discretely. He thought she was wonderful, apart from her name, which was pronounced Shith Ead, but was spelled as just the one word. Unfortunate. But amusing.

Numbers up

I really shouldn’t complain at this time of year, though – after all, it’s the season of goodwill to men and also to women, if I remember correctly.

It’s just very difficult to concentrate on matters seasonal when you know that you have come up with the guaranteed winning numbers for next week’s lottery draw.

This only came about because I’d agreed to accept a palm reading from a client in part payment for an intruder alarm system I’d installed. The poor chap didn’t have the cash funds to pay for it at the time, but he promised that the services he rendered would more than make up for it, eventually.

(The more I think about it now, the more I wonder why a person with the ability to see into the future would require an intruder alarm system at all. You’d imagine that they would know if they were going to be broken into. Obviously, this is none of my business, or concern.)

Anyway, he read my palm, and what he came up with was a list of numbers that he said would be ’very important’ to me in future. I realised, almost immediately, that these were my winning lottery numbers.

As you’ll receive this after the draw which I will win has already taken place, I’ll be a good sport and tell you the numbers he revealed to me. They were: 07, 76, 27, 13, 19, and 1. He looked hopeful and excited as I left, and made me promise to get in touch ‘as soon as I felt ready’. So it looks as if it will be a great Christmas for me after all.

I hope it’s almost as good for you, my dear readers, as well. I look forward to regaling you with tales of my new found wealth and prosperity well into the New Year.