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a sweaty smear. I put on my sunglasses. In the darkness I was blind. I poked one of the sheep up the arse with my white stick and he started to cry. I apologised to Miss Grogney and said I couldn’t see what I was doing and she said, ‘God fortunately wasn’t so blind,’ and I felt a shiver run down my back.
    The straw in the manger smelt strong. I’d brought it from home and even though it wasn’t clean, it was authentic. Michael Jacobs, who was playing Baby Jesus, had been scratching himself ever since he’d been placed in the oversized manger, and under the lighting his heavy-set features, together with a smudge of dirt, made him look as if he had a full beard. I tapped my stick and felt my way into position.
    The scene with the Angel Gabriel seemed to go well and I heard the audience exclaim and clap when Maria Disponera, a new Greek girl, forgot her lines and simply said, ‘You there, Mary. You having baby. Go to Bef-lem.’ She’d got such an important part because her parents owned a Greek restaurant and Miss Grogney was allowed to visit as much as she wanted, until she smashed plates one night when no one else was smashing plates.
    The shepherds were a dozy lot and pointed in the opposite direction to the star, and as they wandered off, they appeared truculent and bored as if it was a ferret that was entering the world and not the Son of God. It looked more hopeful when the Three Kings entered, until, that is, one of them dropped his box of frankincense, which was actually a porcelain tea caddy with earl grey inside. A gasp rose up from the auditorium as his mother reached for a handkerchief and silently wept at the loss of a treasured family heirloom. He hadn’t told her he was taking it. Like he didn’t tell her he smoked her cigarettes. And in between her quiet sobs, a lone sheep, slow to leave the stage, emitted a sudden scream and collapsed onto its stomach as a sharp piece of broken china embedded itself into its bony knee. The Three Kings stepped over him to exit. Only Miss Grogney had the foresight to creep onto the stage in the scene change and drag the child off like some cumbersome, skinned pelt.
    I was in position behind my fake door. Suddenly, I heard a knock.
    ‘Yeees?’ I said, the way Nancy had told me to say it and I opened the door and quickly stepped forward into Mary’s light. The audience gasped. Nancy said I looked like a cross between Roy Orbison and the dwarf in Don’t Look Now . I knew who neither was.
    ‘I am Mary and this is Joseph. We have nowhere to stay. Do you have room in your inn?’
    My heart thumped; my tongue felt thick and heavy. Say it, go on, say it .
    ‘You need a room?’ I said, suddenly veering away from the script.
    I saw Mary and Joseph look at each other. Miss Grogney peered from the wings at me, holding up her script and pointing to it.
    ‘Let me think,’ I said.
    The silence in the theatre was thick, clawing with anticipation. My heart was beating hard, my throat tight. Say it , I said to myself, say it . And then I did.
    ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I have a room, with a lovely view at an excellent rate. Come this way, please,’ and with my white stick tapping ahead, two thousand years of Christianity was instantly challenged as I led Mary (now crying) and Joseph towards a double en-suite with TV and mini bar.
    And as the curtain closed for an early interval, the bearded Jesus was left forgotten in the large bassinet in the corner of the stage, looking around at all that could have been. Suddenly panicked by Jenny Penny’s arachnid shadow creeping towards him, he attempted to climb from the manger, but caught his foot in his swaddling clothes and unfortunately fell forwards onto a papier-mâché rock, that Miss Grogney later told the police ‘had set much harder than anyone could have imagined’.
    His screams sent shudders around the auditorium, and as Jenny Penny tried to lead the audience in the opening verse of ‘Joy to the World!’ the first of the