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Oldies but goodies and things of that nature. Outside the snow continued to fall and a stagecoach-load of travellers enquired the route to Dingly Dell. The saloon bar door swung open to admit a flurry of white, an ancient gentleman and a snow-covered dog. Old Pete pushed the exact change across the polished bar top and accepted the drinks. Christmas Eve at The Flying Swan always had about it an almost religious significance.
It fell somewhere near to the ritual of the high mass. There was the arrival, the blessing, the hymns, the taking up of the offering, the communion of souls and the big goodbye. You had to have your wits about you to pick up on all the subtle nuances though. Pooley, having made his arrival, now made the first blessing. Old Pete hefted a colourfully wrapped parcel onto the countertop as the barman did the business. That Neville should actually have survived intact another year behind the counter of The Flying Swan was a meritorious something in itself.
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And with the passing of time the unhealthy spirit of competition had entered this tradition and the drinking populace now vied with one another to produce the most original, exotic or extraordinary gift. Using Christmas as a theme it being available and everything , the plucky Brentonians chose to bombard their pagan barkeep with trinkets of a Christian nature.
The irony of this was never lost upon Neville, although it had others bewildered. Every gift, however, was inevitably overshadowed by that borne in by Norman Hartnell  of the corner shop. Neville presented further pints and the patrons sat, took in their cups and discoursed upon the doings of the day. The snow fell in cotton wool balls and crept up towards the bench mark on the Memorial Library wall.
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