Once More With Footnotes

and all the stuff made by our Father Christmas is somehow diverted to Zoid or wherever and we get all the stuff he makes, and since he's a robot made out of plastic he only m a kes the things he's good at.
     
                  The people it's really tough on are the kids on Zoid. They wake up on Christmas morning, unplug themselves from their recharger units, clank to the end of the bed (pausing only to fall over once or twice) playfully zapping on e another with their megadeath lasers, look into their portable pedal extremity enclosures, and what do they find? Not the playful, cuddly death-dealing instruments of mayhem that they have been led to expect, but wooden trains, trumpets, rag dolls, and t h ose curly red and white sugar walking sticks that you never see in real life. Toys that don't need batteries. Toys that you don't have to put together. Toys with varnish on instead of plastic. Alien toys.
     
                  And, because of this amazing two-way time warp th ingy, our kids get the rest. Weird plastic masters of the universe which are to the imagination what sandpaper is to a tomato. Alien toys. Maybe it's being done on purpose, to turn them all into Zoids. Like the song says — you'd better watch out.
     
                  I don't t hink it will work, though. I took a look into my daughter's dolls'-house. Old Kraak has been hanging out there since his batteries ran out and his mega-cannons fell off. Mr T. has been there for a couple of years, ever since she found out he could wear Ba r bie's clothes, and I see that some plastic cat-woman is living in the bathroom.
     
                  I don't know why, but what I saw in there gave me hope. Kraak was having a tea party with a mechanical dog, two Playpeople, and three dolls. He wasn't trying to zap anyone. N o matter what Santa Claws throws at us, we can beat him ...
     
                  And now your mummies and daddies are turning up to take you home; be sure to pick up your balloons and Party Loot bags, and remember that Father Christmas will soon be along to give presents to all the good boys and girls who've won awards.
     

Sometimes you just get an idea for a story title and you have to write it. And Diana Wynne Jones wanted a story for the YA anthology Hidden Turnings, published in 1989 ...
     
     
     
     
     
T urntables of the N ight
     
                  L ook, constable, what I don't understand is, surely he wouldn't be into blues? Because that was Wayne's life for you. A blues single. I mean, if people were music, Wayne would be like one of those scratchy old numbers, you know, re-recorded about a hundred times from the original phonograph cylinder or whatever, with some old guy with a name like Deaf Orange Robinson standing knee-deep in the Mississippi and moaning through his nose.
     
                  You'd think he'd be more into Heavy Metal or Meatloaf or someone. But I s uppose he's into everyone. Eventually.
     
                  What? Yeah. That's my van, with Hellfire Disco painted on it. Wayne can't drive, you see. He's just not interested in anything like that. I remember when I got my first car and we went on holiday, and I did the driv ing and, okay, also the repairing, and Wayne worked the radio, trying to keep the pirate stations tuned in. He didn't really care where we went as long as it was on high ground and he could get Caroline or London or whatever. I didn't care where we went so long as we went.
     
                  I was always mote into cars than music. Until now, I think. I don't think I want to drive a car again. I'd keep wondering who'd suddenly turn up in the passenger seat ...
     
                  Sorry. So. Yeah. The disco. Well, the deal was that I supplied the van, we split the cost of the gear, and Wayne supplied the records. It was really my idea. I mean, it seemed a pretty good bet. Wayne lives with his mum but they're down to two rooms now because of his record collection. Lots of people collect records, but I reckon Wayne really wants — wanted — to own every one that was ever made. His idea of a fun outing was going to some old store in some old town and rummaging through the stock and coming out with something by someone with a name like Sid Sputnik and th e Spacemen, but the thing was, the funny thing was, you'd get back to his room and he'd go to a shelf and push all the records aside and