"I don't want to see that", he pouted. "Show me something fun. Something Christmassy."
"Very well" the spirit screamed. "Come with me."
She led him through a shower of sequins to a raucous party being held in an office. "Oops sorry, you weren't meant to see that", she said, as she whisked him off to a new scene.
"Wait, wasn't that Mitt FootKnob behind a door with that adviser?" But his cries were lost to the wind as they arrived inside a house where there was a fine-looking roast turkey on a table heaving with produce.
"This is Dishy's house", he said, laughing. "Oh I'm sure to find some cheer here", he said.
The guests, oblivious to their spirit observers, were busy pulling crackers and telling jokes.
"I've got one", said Dishy. "What is... no, no, stop laughing, I'll get to the point if you let me finish... What do you call it when you go on a long walk looking for someone who screws over the poor but helps rich pensioners?"
His wife squealed with laughter, flashing her diamond-laden fingers. "That's easy! An unwanted creature, with a bad track record of failing in leadership bids... Why it's 'We're going on a Mac - C..'"
"Hold it there dear, this is a family newspaper", Dishy stopped her, just in time.
But McHunt had heard enough. Was he really a figure of fun to his colleagues, and scorn to those who had suffered as a result of his policies?
His mind cast back to the pile of letters from the Mortgage Prisoners' campaign groups, the Waspi Campaigners and the FT Adviser Promote Your Profession campaign, and he sighed. Perhaps he should have dealt with those.
But it was too late for regrets, as once again, McHunt found himself back in his bedroom once more as the clock struck two... and the room grew preternaturally dark and cold.
The Ghost of Budgets Future
McHunt found himself outside in the snow. A shiny silver Tesla pulled up alongside him. A voice that seemed to come from behind him urged him to get into the front passenger seat.
As he did so, he looked at the driver: a middle-aged man, salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a blue shirt - no tie - and dark blue trousers.
A dark blue suit jacket was on the back seat, along with a laminated set of presentation slides and copy of the Times Money section, with rude doodles scrawled all over one journalist's byline. 'This idiot knows nothing about tax', one scribble read.
