Welcome

They saw our message and so they came. Across the City, perfectly synchronized with the end of the Queen's Speech, doorbells chimed, knockers... knocked, and letterboxes flapped.

Afterwards, it was clear that not every home had received the Christmas Day visitors. Only those with turkeys too big for the assembled families, tables with space for another guest, or two, or three.

They brought their own oddly shaped chairs.

Once the screams had stopped, once the fainters had been revived, the visitors unfurled prehensile limbs and held out their invitations.

It took a moment to sink in. And whether it was curiosity; the Queen's entreaty to help our less fortunate neighbors--a heartfelt plea for togetherness; or if it was merely relief that they were not anything like as fearsome as they had at first appeared, extra places were swiftly laid and the people of London welcomed their guests from far away.

None of the visitors spoke. They either couldn't, or were not inclined to. But, by a nod or a tilt of their thin triangular heads (at mostly appropriate moments), it was clear that they listened and understood.

Some, on departure, left gifts. Mere tokens; quirky little things that were quickly snapped up on eBay for small fortunes by scientists and wealthy collectors.

But all of them turned back as they reached the bristly doormats, bowed deeply and once again displayed their not-quite-paper invitations, tapping long antenna-like digits against the bold text:

#RefugeesWelcome