It was Christmas Eve in the good old city of London. Everything was alive with the joyous sounds of festive exchanges; carols floated on the breeze and gently wafted across the cold waters of the river Thames. Multi-coloured lights appeared to festoon the streets in every quarter, and the fragrant heady smell of pine needles could be detected everywhere. There was nothing quite like it. It could be said that there was, in fact, magic in the air.
At that point the Devil arrived at Charing Cross station. He was dressed immaculately in an Astrakhan coat, leather gloves and patent leather shoes that were so brightly polished you could see your face in them. He sported a small black goatee beard and had features that could easily have been chiseled from stone. Smiling, he stepped out into the night. But what was his purpose for being there? Was it purely philanthropic? Or, did he have an ulterior motive up his sleeve? As the evening wore on, the good old city was about to find out.
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