‘Ho, ho, ho.’ Jessie Cook, ambled into the performance space, as Sue was calling it, in a pair of very tight red leggings, the crotch area of which hadn’t seen the light of day for quite some time.

‘Jessie,’ Sue said politely, ‘this audition is for Santa.’

‘And?’ Jessie crossed her arms under her considerable bosom, hoiking it up an inch or two for the briefest of moments, before gravity took its toll again. ‘There’s nothing to say Santa is a man.’

‘There is quite a lot to say it, actually,’ Sue said, as Tamsyn spluttered into her coffee.

‘What about equal opportunities, and that?’ Jessie said. ‘You’re a sexist, that’s what you are. What makes my “ho, ho, ho” any less worthy than some man’s. What? Just because I haven’t got a penis?’

‘I think it is safe to say that Jessie definitely doesn’t have a penis,’ Tamsyn said, not completely straight-faced.

‘I most certainly am not a sexist, Jessie Cook, as well you know!’ Sue told her. ‘You are being ridiculous. This is a casting, you wouldn’t see … Sandra Bullock turning up for a casting of Hamlet, would you? Or … or … Keira Knightley?’

‘Well, where is the bloke then?’ Jessie demanded. ‘Where is Blake Wotsit? We been here all morning, not a sniff of him.’

‘Well. He’s …’ Sue sighed and ticked off a few arbitrary things on her clipboard while she thought of something to say. She had found over the years that ticking things on a clipboards usually gave people a sense of authority, even if, as was very much often the case, you had no idea what the hell you were doing. ‘No one actually specified that there would be a Hollywood star here,’ she said. ‘It was a rumour, started by unknown sources. We don’t know that he is going to show at all.’

‘Unknown sources!’ Eddie shouted from down the line. ‘You sent the email out, Sue!’

‘I can neither confirm nor deny it.’ Sue raised her voice as she spoke. ‘So I suggest that anyone who is here purely to rub shoulders with a celebrity should firstly, question exactly what sort of a person they are, and what sort of Santa they would make. And, secondly, go home.’

Sue sat back in her chair, and felt her shoulders sink as the crowd of prospective Santas thinned out to four. Two of them were drunk, one of them had his leg in a cast and the fourth one was … well, he was drunk too.

‘Ho, ho, ho!’ Sue sat up in her chair, as a fifth contender strode into the church hall already wearing a very high-end costume, made of brushed velvet, and trimmed with bright white fur.

‘A very Merry Christmas to you all!’ he boomed.