rain, anyway.

‘Something might turn up, y’know,’ Kurt says. ‘Strange things happen all the time.’

‘You’re not kidding,’ Frankie says. ‘Last night was the first meeting of the Lonely Hearts Club at Heaven… and Mum went! I only gave her the flyer as a joke, really, but she went, and she had a great time. She got chatted up by a really nice bloke, and now she’s saying that maybe she got it wrong all these years, and not all men are trouble. Incredible, right?’

‘Sounds like,’ I agree.

‘So don’t give up, Anya,’ Frankie says. ‘Things will work out, they always do.’

The bell rings for the end of the lesson, and Mr Finlay blinks in surprise as the kids stream past him, out of the door. His hair is stiff with paste, his fingers covered with cotton-wool fluff, his classroom looking like the scene of a small massacre.

‘Trust me,’ Frankie says, as we pick our way through the puddles of glue. ‘Kurt is good at plans. He’ll work it out. No worries.’

Kurt doesn’t look quite so confident. I’m not sure his plans are brilliant enough to overthrow a global credit crunch, rescue Dad’s business and find me new shoes by teatime, but I guess you never know.

I pick Kazia up from school, wearing my handpainted trainers with the silver stars. They don’t attract quite as many comments as the pink fluffy slippers, which is kind of a relief.

‘What will we tell Mum and Dad?’ Kazia wants to know.

I haven’t quite figured that one out. Maybe they just won’t see? They’re so tired these days they probably wouldn’t notice if Kazia and I were wearing red stilettos.

It’s dusk by the time we cross the road towards the chippy, and I don’t see them at first, the boots sitting neatly on the doorstep of the flat. It’s only when Kazia starts to whoop and yell, when she lets go of my hand and sprints ahead to see, that I realize what has happened.

They’re not our boots, of course. That would be too much of a miracle, but they’re boots, and that’s pretty amazing. Kazia’s are pink suede with a sheepskin lining and pink flowers stitched on the sides. Mine are black with a turn-down cuff, like little pixie boots. Both are the right size, and both are stuffed with tangerines and sweets and topped with a gingerbread man wrapped in cellophane.

‘He came!’ Kazia is squealing. ‘There was no snow, and maybe we were in a different place, but he found us! Maybe a day late, but who cares? And it doesn’t matter about the old boots, because now we have new ones, much better ones!’

I look over to the corner, frowning, as a movement catches my eye. I’m almost sure I can see a shadowy figure with unruly braids and angel wings, disappearing into the shadows.

Dan used his savings to buy the boots, cut-price, from the discount shoe shop in town. He said it was an early Christmas present.

Mum noticed that the boots were different, but Kazia insisted that we found them on the doorstep on St Nicholas’s Day, and I think Mum was just too tired to question it. Besides, we had boots, new boots, and that was the main thing.

Dan had another trick up his sleeve too. ‘It’s a treat,’ he explained. ‘For Kazia, really. Friday evening, OK?’

How do you say no to a boy like Dan Carney? You don’t. It’s Friday evening and I’m ankle deep in snow, watching Kazia chatting to a fat old man with a bushy white beard who is sitting beside her in a sleigh piled high with presents.

He’s Santa Claus, the British version of St Nicholas, and we’re outside his workshop at the North Pole, Dan, Ben, Nate, Kazia and me. How cool is that?

OK, it’s not really the North Pole. It’s a converted shop in town, with life-size models of reindeer and fairy lights and Christmas music playing, but it’s half-price on a Friday night, so here we are. Dan explained the whole thing to Mum, and she said it sounded great and gave us money for tickets and bus fares. ‘Can we afford it?’ I asked, anxious.

‘Anya, it’s Christmas,’ she sighed. ‘I won’t let every penny I earn be eaten up by your dad’s business. You and Kazia need a treat.’

So here we are, standing in the snow, and there are real elves and fairies, and Santa himself, sitting on a plush red-velvet seat in a sleigh that’s strung with silver bells.

It’s not real snow,