It was the night before Christmas, and all was still in the stable yard. The sky was clear, the air was still, and there was a touch of frost on the ground. Branston and Jamie were talking quietly over their stable doors; most of the other horses were sleeping. Suddenly, and without warning, a battered-looking horse-box appeared in-between the rows of stables, preceded by four very strange looking horses indeed. Dexter the three-legged guard dog never even growled; he too slumbered on. A distraught-looking man wearing a red coat dismounted from the box and began to weep.

"Who's the dude in the red coat?" asked Jamie. "It's not normal for the Master to come around to our yard. And that's not a BSI-approved hat he's wearing".

The man in the red coat started to talk to his animals, and Branston could hear his words.

"You've ruined it you old fool Prancer, ruined it. We'll never get done now. I should have retired you last year, but I couldn't bear to see you at grass whilst all of your friends went off to work. And now that's my year's work wasted. Woe is me".

"Steady on there old chap" said Branston. "Don't make a drama out of a crisis. What's the problem?"

"I've got this important delivery round to do" said Santa (for it was he). "We've been to the Land of Song and done our work there, and we came to this amazing water jump between Chepstow and Bristol. I put the team at it just like I always do, but old Prancer went and got his feet tangled up in the rigging of that new bridge they're building. When we came down here there were legs and antlers all over the place. They can't go on now."

"Sounds like the usual excuse to me" said Jamie scathingly. "You didn't use enough leg before the jump, then you lost your bottle. Typical to blame the poor old fellow".

"Well jumping a team of four isn't easy you know" replied Santa defensively, surprised by the vigour of Jamie's remark.

"Me and the boys aren't doing much before the Boxing Day Meet" said Branston, attempting to smooth ruffled feathers. "Can we help you out?"

A grateful Santa quickly harnessed up the hunters, and his elves sprinkled them with magic dust. He sat back in the cab of the battered box and jingled his magic bells ready for the off. Nothing happened. He jingled again, more insistently this time. Again nothing happened. He was about to crack his magic whip when big Monty turned round and looked down at him, then stamped a foot the size of a dinner plate.

"What do you think this is Pops? A Corporation bus? We don't go for bells you know."

Santa was not used to his animals debating issues with him, and the poor rotund little man felt intimidated by the sheer size of big Monty. He was stuck for words, but at that point a helpful elf came and whispered urgently in his ear. "Ah-haa" he said, and dipped his hand into a large sack lying by his side. "I don't suppose His Grace needs this anyway. Strike Badminton from the list". He pulled out a shiny new huntsman's horn, and after a few failed attempts managed to blow Gone Away. The horses responded immediately, and the box lifted off into the night sky.

Once the hunters had got the hang of flying, they worked very efficiently. Mac, being the most experienced horse, decided to treat it like an Event. The huge bulk of the Wrekin was overcome like an Irish Bank; the Pennines were cleared in grand style just like a bullfinch hedge, 16 hooves brushing through the tops of the pine trees. The fens were covered at immense speed in point-to-point style. The only problem came around Melton, where Santa's efforts with the horn roused the hounds in the Quorn kennels. The huntsman spent half an hour searching the grounds for an intruder, and because he was awake he missed out on the delivery of a silver hip flask.

And so the team sped to stables around the country, delivering a new Rambo rug here, a new Stubben saddle there (this is a fairy story after all), and lots of bags of carrots for horses who had been good this year. There were no carrots for the silly impressionable horses who listen to the Wicked Whispers. These are the voices carried on the wind from far far away across the sea, giving false instructions like "Dump him. Cart him. Put in a humungous buck. Go on, do it, do it". Indeed, even as the hunters were doing Santa's round, the Wicked Whisperers had hired a particularly malevolent Boggit to visit all of the silly horses and give them a really nasty fright.

Carole came into the yard early on Christmas morning before the sun had risen. She wanted to get the horses seen to so that she could go out on the new Team Chaser that had arrived for her on Christmas Eve. As she turned the corner past the tack room, her eyes almost popped out of her head. The row of furry faces looking at her were not those which she expected to see. She ran screaming back to the big house. "Dennis, DENNIS. It's the livery horses. Something horrible has happened to them. They've got antlers and red noses."

"There there love". Dennis kindly comforted her. "You've been doing too much recently. Go back to bed, and I'll see to them". He led the by now incoherent girl upstairs, and pulled on his boots.

Back in the yard there was a barely audible whoosh, and the battered horse-box returned. As quick as a flash Santa retrieved his own team, and returned the livery horses to their stables. When Dennis returned he was mystified.

"That's strange", he thought. "Branston and Jamie have swapped boxes overnight, and fastened themselves back in. And look how red their nostrils are, like they've been working hard. And see how much they've run-up. I wonder if those lunatic livery owners have been for a moonlight ride. Dexter: where were you?"

Dexter the three-legged guard dog slumbered happily on, sprawled atop the biggest sack of carrots that you have ever seen.

And that's a true story.