. . and Santa had just knocked off from charging around the Midnight Sky and getting stuck in chimneys. (Raymond Briggs wrote a lovely story about him, remember?) Anyway, there he was with his feet in a bowl of Something For The Weekend which would bring 'em up smelling of roses. He sighed, settled back in his old arm chair, reached for his glass of mulled wine and plate of mince pies, and was looking forward to the usual 364 day holiday when a knock came at the door. "Who the f*****g h**l can that be at this time of night?" quoth the kindly old gentleman. He heaved himself to his feet and lumbered to the door and opened it, whereupon the snow and the icy blasts of winter further diminished his bonhommie. On the threshold stood one of his Little Helpers, a fairy, no less, dragging behind her a huge Christmas Tree. "Oh, sorry to bother you, Santa. You know you asked me to deliver the trees to the poor folk? Well, I've done that. Except when I ran out of poor folk, there was this tree left over. Where do you want me to put it?"
Well, folks . . . now you know why there's a fairy on top of your Christmas Tree.