Tenzin, the young Buddhist monk, had just spent his second Christmas on the island of Hopeless. Was it really only fourteen months since he had been brought here, whisked away from Tibet tucked beneath the arm of a very large Yeti?

This Guardian of the Glaciers, who was otherwise known as Willy (or possibly Billy), was a creature who considered his distant relative, Mr Squash the sasquatch, to be particularly small and puny. That had not, however, prevented him from using Mr Squash’s mysterious portal to smuggle Tenzin to safety.

The journey, undertaken to escape the evil lama Dawasandup, was short and brutal, but not that Tenzin remembered much about it. Humans travelling through Mr Squash’s portals were always rendered comatose, which was just as well, for ensconced beneath a Yeti’s armpit is not the most salubrious place to find oneself.

In any case, living at The Squid and Teapot had proved a splendid education. Tenzin’s almost-perfect English was spoken with an accent all his own, drawn mainly from Philomena’s gentle Irish lilt and Reggie Upton’s clipped, upper-class militiariese. There were, however, still a few linguistic mysteries waiting to unfold.

On the last day of December, Tenzin was pleased to greet his friends in the bar with a cheery:

“Merry New Year.”

“Ah! Actually, we don’t say that, old chap,” said Reggie. “We say Happy New Year.”

Tenzin frowned slightly.

“Not merry?”

“Never merry,” said Reggie. “Always happy.”

Tenzin considered this.

“Why?”

Reggie opened his mouth, then stopped. His brow furrowed.

Why indeed?

“I’ll get back to you on that, old chap,” he said at last. “For the life of me, I’m dashed if I know.”

Throughout much of that afternoon, any casual observer might have concluded that Reggie was no longer in full possession of his metaphorical marbles. He wandered back and forth before The Squid, muttering, nodding, and occasionally laughing to himself.

In fact, the truth was that Reggie was in full battle preparation, employing thought processes that had served him well in many a campaign.

It was early evening when he next encountered Tenzin. Caitlin and little Oswald were safely tucked up in bed, and the residents of The Squid gathered in the snuggery, as the inn enjoyed its brief hush before the New Year’s onslaught.

“Well,” said Reggie, “you’ve certainly given me something to think about. But I believe I’ve cracked it.”

As several hours had passed since their original exchange, Tenzin – like everyone else – had absolutely no idea what he meant.

“Oh no,” said Philomena, aghast. “Not the flushing privy. I don’t know how we’ll replace that.”

“No, no –  not the old thunder-box,” laughed Reggie. “I meant, why we don’t say Merry New Year.”

Relieved, Philomena settled with Rhys and Tenzin, to hear the inevitable lecture.

“According to a very fine little book I found gathering dust in the main attic,” said Reggie, “merry didn’t originally mean jolly at all. Its older meanings were lively, spirited, unrestrained and, most importantly, slightly dangerous. A merry person was not necessarily nice, and certainly not the sort of chap one would lend a fiver to. He would be high-spirited, possibly reckless, and probably over-lubricated.”

“I’ve heard people described as being a bit merry after a drink or two,” said Rhys. “I thought that just meant cheerful.”

“Oh, I expect they were,” said Reggie. “But a merry person steps outside the rule book,  though usually not far enough to cause alarm.”

“But surely,” said Tenzin, “when you wish someone a Merry Christmas, you are encouraging them to break the rules?”

Reggie smiled.

“You still have much to learn of our customs, dear boy. That’s exactly what Christmas is for. It is the last socially acceptable space for misrule. That’s why those blasted Puritans banned it.”

He took a long swig of Old Colonel, dried his moustache, and continued.

“Christmas was never cosy. It was noisy, rowdy, topsy-turvy and faintly alarming. Lords served servants. Work stopped and boundaries blurred. The Lord of Misrule was no metaphor, and the whole shenanigans went on for twelve days.”

“So Merry Christmas doesn’t mean ‘Have a nice time’?” asked Philomena.

“Good heavens, no,” laughed Reggie. “It means: allow the usual rules to loosen their grip. A little pleasure, a little noise, a little risk and, quite often, a far from little hangover.”

“So that definition explains Robin Hood’s Merry Men,” said Philomena. “They were never particularly jolly. More of a gang of thugs, I’m my opinion.”

“Precisely!” said Reggie, thumping the table, and making everyone jump. “They lived beyond the law. That’s what made them merry.”

Tenzin, who had been silent, said thoughtfully,

“So Hopeless, with its odd and chaotic ways, could be called a merry place.”

“Indeed it can,” said Reggie.

“So when I say ‘Merry New Year’ I am not wrong.”

“No,” said Reggie, carefully. “I suppose you are not.”

Tenzin stood, raised his cup of sarsaparilla, and declared:

“Then a Merry New Year to one and all.”