Jan Mattys was a generous man at any time. Well, he was generous with some things. He'd fly into a rage if you tried to part him from his bourbon, for instance. On the other hand, he'd happily give away his puff pastries any day of the year, only taking a few lovely round little silver coins for them when pressed.

But at Christmas, Jan Mattys was transformed. Nothing restrained his generosity. He'd have stalls covered with baked goods set up all over the mean streets of Amsterdam (and Munster) and he'd just let them be given away to whoever was walking past, while he wandered around having discussions with passers-by and having the greatest time he could.

Something always bothered him though. Because, after people had enjoyed one of his delicious, free, fluffy, puff pastries, they'd head on into the cathedrals and listen to the bishops, as they sermonised away in a language even someone who knew all about Pi would struggle to understand. In the end, Jan Mattys knew, however much he enjoyed it, Christmas was the bishops' holiday. However much he did, he couldn't change that. They just weren't those kinds of times.

Every year, by the time the New Year came round, Jan Mattys's mood would have changed. First, he'd still be on the streets, but with one too many bourbons in him, staggering and swearing about the bishops, stuffing puff pastries into shocked folk's mouths. Then he'd be nowhere to be seen, tucked into a corner of some down-and-outs' dingy bar, clutching a bottle close and muttering to himself about biblical literalism.

I'd like to be able to tell you that there's some useful conclusion to these tales of Jan Mattys's seasonal career. I'd like to be able to tell you that there's a little bit of Jan Mattys in all of us at this time of year. But that might not be for the best since, as you know, the only conclusion for Jan Mattys was his head on the bishops' pikes.

Take care this festive season, and enjoy good-looking dames, puff pastries and bourbon in as much or as little moderation as suits you.