There once was a bumbling Robin that lived in the highest branches of an oak tree. When Winter came around, the tree would become laden with snowflakes, and the branches would become as slippery as serpents. One cold night, the Robin was hopping between the twigs trying to warm his ruffled plumes, when he slipped and tumbled down from his tree, down, down, down into the earthy darkness of a chimney pot.
Dazed, the puzzled bird wobbled upright, and found that he had fallen into a warm kitchen: the aroma of roasting turkey and spiced mince filled the room, and he waggled over to the nearest bubbling pot. Looking in, he found a rich sea of wine, dark with cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves. Immediately, he hobbled up to the edge of the pot, absorbing as much of the sumptuous essence as possible, when all of a sudden he fell into the simmering cauldron!
Round and round he bobbed, jiggling his tiny wings. After some time, when the liquid in the pot had significantly decreased, out popped the Robin, his spherical body rolling around like a crimson pea.
As the Robin tried to manoeuvre his way through the kitchen, he developed a most strange behaviour. Not only could he not stand straight, his little wings were positively out of control, and he shouted vehemently at the wooden spoon. As he hobbled along the worktop, he trampled on a poetry book, extinguished a candle with his flapping wings, and knocked a wedding ring, removed for cooking, onto the dusty floor.
Quite frankly, the little Robin was a drunken vagabond. He soon began to cry, wandering why he had developed a sudden desire for fried potatoes.
Presently, the Robin was greeted with a soft hand. It picked him up, and dropped him gently into a pudding bowl, padded with a warm towel. He was then presented with an egg-cup of warm milk, and a crumbly mince pie, which sobered up the little Robin a treat, and the bowl was placed before the window. His balance and tranquility restored, he was soothed.
Warm and happy, the Robin lay nestled beneath the stars, and fell asleep.