Once, after a long summer and a few too many draughts of harvest ale, Father Time overslept. While he ignored his massive grandfather alarm clock, the world’s population stood frozen impatiently checking their watches and muttering to each other “whatever could have happened?” and “he’s always been such a reliable employee.”
He only woke when time flew into his bedroom and nipped him on the ear once twice the third bite was charmed. Father Time woke to see Baby New Year glaring and tapping his plump little wrist from the end of the bed.
Father Time used a number of words that cannot be repeated. They all had four letters. Some of them were learned in France.
Afterwards time had to be hastened to make up for when it lost itself. Leaves fell overnight and animals dropped into hibernation where they stood. Thanksgiving and Christmas ran into each other, so that people were eating turkey legs while they shopped for presents. None of the Christmas trees had been cut down. Instead, on cold evenings across the world, people stumbled into the woods lit a single candle and opened their presents in the snow. This of course was very messy and that year squirrels and birds had nests made of wrapping paper and tinsel.
Poor Father Time never heard the end of his slip up. Years later, he was still getting alarm clocks and roosters for his birthday. He took them and slid them in his voluminous sleeves; expression grave, as ever, but the slight blush on the edge of his cheeks gave his embarrassment away.