Mrs Puddifoot does not care for New Year's Eve. It is cold, loud, and full of people shouting at the sky as if the sky has done something personal. Mrs Puddifoot would much rather stay indoors with a kettle, a biscuit, and a firm commitment to letting the year change without her involvement.
Unfortunately, the next year has other plans.
Because a polite stranger appears on her doorstep and claims, in the calm voice of someone asking for directions, that he is early for the new year. Not early for a party. Early for the year itself. He apologises for the inconvenience and asks if he might wait on the doorstep until midnight when he can officially begin.
Mrs Puddifoot stares at him. The stranger smiles pleasantly and produces a thermos of tea.
And then, as if this is perfectly normal, more people begin to arrive. Quiet people. Cheerful people. Determined people. All forming a queue that starts at Mrs Puddifoot's front door and stretches through the town, up the hill, and steadily towards midnight. They are queuing for the new year like it is a bus service or a bakery opening.
Mrs Puddifoot does not want a queue. Mrs Puddifoot does not want visitors. Mrs Puddifoot definitely does not want to be responsible for organising the next year like it is a community event she accidentally volunteered to host.
So she does the only sensible thing. She tries to ignore it. She closes the curtains. She makes herself tea. She sits in her armchair with a book and pretends nothing unusual is happening outside.
This becomes increasingly difficult when the queue begins to develop its own mood, its own rules, and its own gentle stubbornness. There are murmured resolutions. There is the peculiar comfort of standing near strangers who are all waiting for the same moment. There is hope mixed with nervousness, all wrapped up in a line of people who have decided that this year, they are not going to let it just happen to them.
Eventually, Mrs Puddifoot opens the door. Not because she wants to join in. But because ignoring something does not make it go away, and sometimes the thing you are avoiding is actually the thing you need. What follows is a gentle, bonkers journey through conversations with people waiting for change, hoping for better, and queuing politely because that is what you do when something important is about to begin.
This is a cosy bedtime story that is funny in a quiet way, magical in a slightly odd way, and warm in the way tired parents need. Children will enjoy the absurd idea of queuing for a year, the odd characters who appear, and the soft sense of something special unfolding. Grown ups will recognise the feeling underneath. That worry about missing your moment. That hope that maybe this time you will join in instead of watching from the doorway.
Perfect for family listening on winter evenings, for after school wind down, or at bedtime when you want audio stories for children that settle gently. If you are searching for funny bedtime stories for kids with warmth, a kids storytelling podcast that feels thoughtful, and wholesome humour that lands soft, this queue is waiting.
Mr Morton's Barmy Book of Bonkers Bits is wholesome family storytelling with a bonkers twist. Performance driven, kind hearted, and never mean.
Episode length: approximately 12 minutes
Ages: 4 to 400
Best enjoyed: bedtime, car journeys, after school wind down
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