Home for Christmas - a dissapointing start to the big day

I went in search of mother and found her in the kitchen, preparing the sprouts. Although cook is responsible for the food at Wynorin, mother always insists that she, herself,  prepares the sprouts at Christmas.
I don't know why she does this; one of her little idiosyncrasies.

Anyhow, I drew her attention to the missing presents.
'Ah, yes, I had been meaning to tell you,' she said, pausing, sprout in hand, 'I have used the money I was going to spend on your Christmas presents to buy a donkey for some people in Africa.'

'What!', I expostulated, 'What people?'

'Well, George, I felt it was time to consider those far less well off than us this Christmas. And I saw this piece in the paper where you could send a donkey to a disadvantaged family in that dark continent. I was horrified when I read about the conditions under which these folk are living. Do you know, these people are starving, and they have to walk miles to the nearest supermarket. And they haven't got a 4x4 like we have. So I thought you would not mind sacrificing your presents this Yeletide so that they could ride, in relative comfort, to get food and such.'

'But mother,' I protested, 'could you not have made a smaller donation? Say for half a donkey?'

'Don't be silly, George, what good would half a donkey be?' She gave me a withering look.

I ignored this. 'Anyway, how are you going to get a donkey to Africa?' I queried.

'George, you can be so obtuse at times. Of course I am not personally shipping the aninmal. You send the money to this company and they see to all the travel arrangements.'

 'If these people are that hungry they will probably eat the donkey.' I averred.

'Goodness me, I hope not.' Said mother, a note of alarm in her voice. 'As a token of thanks I was allowed to give the donkey a name; I have called him GEORGE. I should hate to think they have eaten my poor George.'

'You called an ass after your son!' I cried in disbelief. 'What sort of a mother does that?' I was quite cross.

Just then, cook came into the kitchen, and mother gave me one of her looks which meant 'Not in front of the servants.'

So I left, determing to go and sulk in the music room.

As I was crossing the hall, a gutteral voice bellowed 'Merry Christmas, kiddo!'

I hate being called 'kiddo' especially by some jumped up Aberdonian journalist. So I ignored Borris and continued into the music room. Alone at last, I gave way to my emotions, and shed a few tears. What a Christmas this was turning out to be, I despaired.

There was a soft knock at the door. Hurriedly composing myself, I wiped my eyes and called 'Come'.

It was Elsie, holding a large parcel wrapped in Christmas paper, with reindeer and robins and such.

A proper present. My heart leapt.