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Authors: Francesca Simon

Horrid Henry's Christmas (8 page)

BOOK: Horrid Henry's Christmas
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“How funny. This looks just like the vase
I
gave Aunt Ruby for Christmas last year.”

“What a coincidence,” said Mom, blushing bright red.

“Great minds think alike,” said Dad quickly.

Dad gave Mom an iron.

“Oh, an iron, just what I always wanted,” said Mom.

Mom gave Dad oven gloves.

“Oh, oven gloves, just what I always wanted,” said Dad.

Pimply Paul gave Prissy Polly a huge power drill.

“Eeeek,” squealed Polly. “What’s this?”

“Oh, that’s the Megawatt Superduper Drill-o-matic 670 XM3,” said Paul, “and just wait till you see the attachments. You’re getting those for your birthday.”

“Oh,” said Polly.

Granny gave Grandpa a lovely mug to put his false teeth in.

Grandpa gave Granny a shower cap and a jumbo pack of dusters.

“What super presents!” said Mom. “Yes,” said Perfect Peter. “I loved every single one of my presents, especially the oranges and walnuts in my stocking.”

“I didn’t,” said Horrid Henry.

“Henry, don’t be horrid,” said Dad. “Who’d like a mince pie?”

“Are they homemade or from the store?” asked Henry.

“Homemade of course,” said Dad.

“Gross,” said Henry.

“Ooh,” said Polly. “No, Vera!” she squealed as Vera vomited all over the plate.

“Never mind,” said Mom tightly. “There’s more in the kitchen.”

Horrid Henry was bored. Horrid Henry was fed up. The presents had all been opened. His parents had made him go on a long, boring walk. Dad had confiscated his Terminator trident when he had speared Peter with it.

So, what now?

Grandpa was sitting in the armchair with his pipe, snoring, his tinsel crown slipping over his face.

Prissy Polly and Pimply Paul were squabbling over whose turn it was to change Vera’s stinky diaper.

“Eeeek,” said Polly. “I did it last.”

“I did,” said Paul.

“WAAAAAAAAA!” wailed Vomiting Vera.

Perfect Peter was watching Sammy the Snail slithering about on TV.

Horrid Henry snatched the remote and switched channels.

“Hey, I was watching that!” protested Peter.

“Tough,” said Henry.

Let’s see, what was on? “Tra la la la . . .” Ick! Daffy and her Dancing Daisies. “Wait! I want to watch!” wailed Peter. Click. “…And the tension builds as the judges compare tomatoes grown . . .”

Click! “ …Wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you . . .” Click! “Chartres Cathedral is one of the wonders of …” Click! “HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA.” Opera! Click! Why was there nothing good on TV? Just a baby movie about singing cars he’d seen a million times already.

“I’m bored,” moaned Henry. “And I’m starving.” He wandered into the kitchen, which looked like a hurricane had swept through.

“When’s lunch? I thought we were eating at two. I’m starving.”

“Soon,” said Mom. She looked a little frazzled. “There’s been a little problem with the oven.”

“So when’s lunch?” bellowed Horrid Henry.

“When it’s ready!” bellowed Dad.

Henry waited. And waited. And waited. “When’s lunch?” asked Polly.

“When’s lunch?” asked Paul.

“When’s lunch?” asked Peter.

“As soon as the turkey is cooked,” said Dad. He peeked into the oven. He poked the turkey. Then he went pale.

“It’s hardly cooked,” he whispered.

“Check the temperature,” said Granny.

Dad checked.

“Oops,” said Dad.

“Never mind, we can start with the sprouts,” said Mom cheerfully.

“That’s not the right way to do sprouts,” said Granny. “You’re peeling too many of the leaves off.”

“Yes, Mother,” said Dad.

“That’s not the right way to make gravy,” said Granny.

“Yes, Mother,” said Dad.

“That’s not the right way to make stuffing,” said Granny.

“Yes, Mother,” said Dad.

“That’s not the right way to roast potatoes,” said Granny.

“Mother!” yelped Dad. “Leave me alone!”

“Don’t be horrid,” said Granny.

“I’m not being horrid,” said Dad.

“Come along, Granny, let’s get you a nice drink and leave the chef on his own,” said Mom, steering Granny firmly toward the living room. Then she stopped.

“Is something burning?” asked Mom, sniffing.

Dad checked the oven.

“Not in here.”

There was a shriek from the living room.

“It’s Grandpa!” shouted Perfect Peter.

Everyone ran in.

There was Grandpa, asleep in his chair. A thin column of black smoke rose from the arms. His paper crown, drooping over his pipe, was smoking.

“Whh..whh?” mumbled Grandpa, as Mom whacked him with her broom. “AAARRGH!” he gurgled as Dad threw water over him.

“When’s lunch?” screamed Horrid Henry.

“When it’s ready,” screamed Dad.

It was dark when Henry’s family finally sat down to Christmas lunch. Henry’s tummy was rumbling so loudly with hunger he thought the walls would cave in. Henry and Peter made a dash to grab the seat against the wall, furthest from the kitchen.

“Get off!” shouted Henry.

“It’s my turn to sit here,” wailed Peter.

“Mine!”

“Mine!”

“WAAAAAAAAAAA!” screeched Henry.

“WAAAAAAAAAAA!” wailed Peter.

“Quiet!” screamed Dad.

Mom brought in fresh holly and ivy to decorate the table.

“Lovely,” said Mom, placing the boughs all along the center.

“Very festive,” said Granny.

“I’m starving!” wailed Horrid Henry.

“This isn’t Christmas lunch, it’s Christmas dinner.”

“Shhh,” said Grandpa.

The turkey was finally cooked. There were platefuls of stuffing, sprouts, cranberries, gravy, and peas.

BOOK: Horrid Henry's Christmas
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