Don't Fuck With Heaven at Christmas

The High Council of Angels was the ones who decided that Spencer had outstayed his welcome in Heaven. He was not fit for the Customer Services unit of the company. "You can do temp work, maybe go to the Fairy Lights department at Christmas," they said – but Spencer wasn't down with that. He asked what the normal penalty for killing a Purgatory patient was when they weren't overworked.

"Well, back in the day we used to banish wrongdoers to clouds for a few centuries or so to learn their lesson," George, Spencer's boss told him as he went through applications for a weekend Pearly Gate operator. "But I'd take the Christmas job if I were you."

So there it was that, early one Sunday morning, Spencer found himself perched on a fluffy cloud somewhere above London with nothing for company except a couple of seagulls that took great delight at pecking his face every half an hour.

Two months later

Still there.

Six months after that

Still there.

One year after that

Still there. The seagulls had taken to pecking Spencer's eyes until they watered – or he cried; sometimes it was hard to tell, especially when they showed Titanic on the big screens in Hyde Park.

The tears would drip down Spencer's nose (his mum had always maintained it was an unacceptable shape) and continue going, right down until they plopped on to the heads of pedestrians immediately below.

"Bloody weather," they would mutter, pulling a the ever-present umbrella out of a pocket of bag and continue down the street until they passed under a cloud whose occupant wasn't simultaneously fighting a seagull and a fit of the sniffles as a boat scraped against an iceberg on a screen in Hyde Park.

Ruby's Christmas present, not uploaded until now due to FP, and my memory, playing up.

Reviews appreciated!