Mary Margaret was the sort to stifle her sneezes for fear of offending people. As it happened, the chaotic squeak, snort and choo she produced was, in fact, infinitely more offensive than the plain old atchoo she so forcefully tried to conceal.

In any case, that is tangential to the legend at hand. Did I mention that this was a legend? Well, it is. Because, of course, after that fabled Tuesday, Mary Margaret Mayhew was never seen, heard of, smelt or otherwise perceived ever again…

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves! So, our heroine, Ms. Mary Margaret, wrapped up tight in an entirely unflattering and out of character puffa jacket, huffed and puffed her way up the hill, the wind breathing hard in her face, the snow blizzarding right onto the windscreens of her thick-rimmed glasses. (Mary Margaret was not, in fact, visually impaired, but admired the bookish appearance that spectacles afforded.) And alongside her, as always, was her little scrappy dog, Mister Humphries, looking decidedly displeased to have been dragged out into the wet and cold for some superstitious silliness. To add insult to injury, Mary Margaret had dressed him in a humiliating bright yellow rainproof ensemble and matching wellington boots which forced him to plod about like a drunken donkey. When he got back he would take his revenge on a pair of Mary Margaret’s favourite slippers.

After some time and many a muddy mischief, Mary Margaret reached the hallowed hilltop and there, ethereally shimmering, stood the fabled Silver Tree.

She took shelter under its leaves, where, magically, there was but a gentle breeze and not a flake of snow. Her eyes darted about nervously behind her frosty frames, seeking some sign of unearthly goings on.

A lighter click clicked behind her. She jumped and whimpered a girlish squeal, then spun round to see a petite character, a lady dressed in a tutu, knee-high socks and a leather jacket, lighting up a cigarette that entirely didn’t suit her.

It was, of course, the infamous Dave.