“I SUPPOSE you’ll be boring us with snow stories and man’s struggle with the elements,” said former college scout James, adding a third tube of sugar to his Marks & Spencer hot chocolate.

He is a seasoned critic of the Press, but at least he reads our efforts before passing judgement and most scribes prefer hot criticism to cold indifference.

James’s prophecy might have come true had it not been for the story of Charlie, a bright-faced seven-year-old boy, and a story to gladden your heart.

Charlie had been fascinated by TV coverage of the exploits of Battle of Britain pilots as the world celebrated the 70th anniversary of the event.

His dad encouraged the interest and they bought and built some Airfix models from the local craft shop. Charlie was particularly fascinated by the Spitfire and with parental help he made an excellent job of building it.

The model was his pride and joy and never missed the opportunity to show it off.

A few days later, the headteacher of his school invited the children to visit a residential home in a nearby town and deliver gifts of fruit, chocolates and other small luxuries bought with profits from the annual autumn fair.

Charlie went along and met a self-confessed lonely and bitter old chap who, after a life of action, was finding it difficult to adjust to needing help with everything. The boy sat on a footstool and listened to the old man’s stories. Imagine his surprise on learning he had been a Spitfire pilot, one of the Few.

THE story might have ended there had the headteacher not announced last week that the residential home had invited a party of children to return and sing carols the next day. Charlie said he would like to go.

I had volunteered to collect the little chap from school because his parents had business appointments that couldn’t be broken.

On the way home he announced casually he intended to take his beloved Spitfire and give it to the old pilot.

He packed it in a box and covered it with cling film. The following morning he knocked at the headteacher’s office door and asked if he could leave the Spitfire in her care until they went off to the home. He explained it was a gift ‘for that really sad old gentleman’.

By her own admission, a large lump formed in her throat.

When Charlie returned from school and the visit, I had gone home, but telephoned to find out how things went. Had the old man liked his gift?

“I'm not sure,” he said. I visualise a wrinkled brow below his thatch of blond hair as he carefully chose his words.

“He put it on the small table by his chair. He didn’t say anything... I think that was because he was crying.”

Happy Christmas, everyone!