The day before Christmas...

"Bah!" said Scrooge. "Humbug! What's Christmas, except a time when the sector spends even more money on office parties, when they should be paying back all the money they owe me!" "But they can invest it wisely, uncle, and still have enough to make merry at Christmas time too," explained his nephew, who was now approaching Scrooge with a beaming face. "And then they'll be able to take out more loans from you in the future! I'm trying to raise the funds for a little mixed-use project of my own, but I haven't got a brass farthing to rub together... you couldn't lend me a little, could you - in the spirit of Christmas? Lots of other real estate banks are doing this now." "Keep your Christmas," exclaimed Scrooge, "and I'll keep my finance!" And with that, the old man hurried past his nephew and trudged back through the snow towards his house.
The first spirit...
It was past midnight that evening when old Scrooge had finally finished counting all his gold sovereigns. He had been asleep not an hour and was in the middle of a prodigiously hard snore when he was suddenly awoken by a low muttering and a beeping sound. A deathly light gradually filled the room as a ghostly hand drew back his bed curtain.

"Who, and what are you?" Scrooge demanded. Through the curtain Scrooge could see that the light was cast from a Blackberry that the figure was prodding and speaking into. "Yes - we can launch the project now and start the sales process," said the apparition into the device. The phantom was strangely and opulently attired, in an expensive Savile Row suit and silk cravat, as people had worn years ago, in the best of times. But they were now long gone, and so the figure bore the appearance of one who had stepped out of the pages of a history book. "Sorry," said the ghastly apparition. "Oooooooo!! I am the Ghost of Real Estate Past. Oooo... hang on, I've got another message." The figure had been distracted by the Blackberry beeping. After punching in a reply, the apparition raised its voice again. "There, I've just bought a downtown office tower with value-add potential. Where was I? Oh yes. Oooooo! Scrooge, take my arm." The spectre linked arms with Scrooge and much to the latter's surprise they both passed straight through the walls of the house and out through the air above a city that he didn't at first recognise. Everywhere he looked there seemed to be a commotion of construction work - machines mixing cement and blocks being moved through the air as labourers shouted instructions to one another above the din. "Where am I?" wondered Scrooge aloud. "Just a moment," said the ghost. "Yes, that's a good price. Sign the deal," he said into his Blackberry. "Sorry - just selling that skyscraper I bought a few seconds ago. Don't you know this place, Scrooge?" It did look familiar. "You are in this very city, but long ago," continued the apparition, "when a new large-scale urban development was being built." "Large-scale urban development? Bah - humbug!" retorted Scrooge. But at that moment his attention was drawn to a group of gentlemen down below shaking hands with a finely dressed young man. Scrooge then discovered he could eavesdrop upon their conversation: "It is my pleasure to provide you with this credit facility for such a promising project," declared the young man. "It will give much needed housing and amenities to the local populace. I only ask that it is repaid with a reasonable rate of interest." "Credit facility? Reasonable interest rates? Humbug!" said Scrooge, addressing the ghost. "Who is this foolish young man?" The answer was given by one of the gentleman shaking hands with the young man: "Thank you! You won't regret your decision. Merry Christmas, young Master Scrooge!" The older incarnation of Scrooge was dumbfounded. "That was me? Poppycock! I shall never believe that I was ever such a fool. Take me from this place!" "Very well," said the ghost.
The second spirit...
Scrooge awoke to find himself tucked back in his bed once more. "Thank heavens! It was all just an awful dream!" he exclaimed to himself, and promptly returned to snoring into his pillow. Alas, not for long. Barely an hour had passed since Scrooge had resumed his slumbers when he was again awoken by a noise inside his room. "What now? Who is it?" he said, pulling back the curtain. This time there was no Blackberry constantly feeding messages of investment deals to light up the face of his latest visitor; but through the gloom he could see a seated figure in less elegant garments than the first, possibly wearing an old suit or one bought in a sale. "I am the Ghost of Real Estate Present!" boomed the apparition. "I suppose you intend to show me the state of the property market now?" said Scrooge. "But I know exactly what it is like. A lot of idiots paying for things without money - people who have never learnt how to balance their books!" "Do you really know, Scrooge?" said the spectre taking his arm. "Do you really?" Scrooge was once more transported through the walls of his home and through the air into the same place as before, but this time there was silence: the machines stood idle among the half-finished buildings and not a labourer could be seen. "Why, this is nonsense!" said Scrooge. "Where is the profit in unfinished buildings for anyone? If I had been financing all this, I would make sure that there were enough funds to finish the enterprise!" "But you were financing it, Scrooge - before you changed your mind. Now look at it." "W-well," stammered Scrooge, "they obviously had an unrealistic business plan. It matters not to me - they brought it on themselves. And nobody is really hurt by foreclosures. It's all insured, and they move on to other jobs where maybe they will invest their funds more prudently." "Nobody is hurt? Let's take a look, shall we?" moaned the apparition. And in a trice they had been transported into the interior of a humble dwelling - in fact, into what passed as its dining room, with the table laid out for Christmas dinner. Around the table was a family, the head of whom Scrooge recognised. It was one of his clients, Bob Developer, carving the goose. Except it wasn't exactly a goose. "Here, Tiny Tim," said Bob to his young son, "take a slice of Chicken McNugget." "It's alright father - I'm not that hungry. Share it between yourselves." Clearly Tim was not telling the truth, out of the goodness of his heart, "You must eat, Tim!" interjected Mrs Developer. "You're all skin and bones!" "Yes - eat it Tim!" Scrooge joined in. But no-one there could hear him. "Please eat it Tim. It's the last food we have for a few days, so we may as well eat it together now on Christmas Day. I'm afraid that nice Mr Scrooge can't afford to refinance the business, so we will have to make the best of what we've got." "That's right," said Scrooge, "I can't possibly spare any money for you." But his words were interrupted by Mrs Developer: "Nice Mr Scrooge?? Don't make me laugh! We should never have agreed to that loan facility with that wicked old miser! It's all because of the exorbitant repayments that we can't afford to put goose on Tiny Tim's plate this Christmas!" "My dear, you must know that there have been liquidity problems in the banking sector since the credit crunch, and now new stricter regulations are being implemented. It's not Mr Scrooge's fault," said Mr Developer. "He's telling the truth - listen to him!" said the unheard Scrooge. Martha, the daughter of the family, then pulled a grotesque face and rubbed her hands, muttering: "Bah! Humbug! I'm evil Mr Scrooge! No you may NOT have an extension on your credit! Humbug!" This was much to the amusement of the rest of the family. "That's what they really think of me?" asked Scrooge of the ghost, offended. "Take me away from this place!"

The last spirit...
Scrooge awoke in cold sweat back in his bed at home. "Thank heavens, just another horrible dream! How can I stop these infernal wraiths from wakening me! All these people want my money, do they? Bah, hum..." He stopped himself before he could say the word, remembering Martha's mockery, and with that, turned over and fell once more into a deep, but even more troubled sleep.
Another hour passed by and then the room became very cold indeed. Scrooge sat bolt upright in his bed, catching a glimpse of a dark figure through the curtain. "Yes, who is it this time? I suppose you're the Ghost of Real Estate Yet-to-Come, or something?" The phantom did not reply. Scrooge could see that it was wearing much the same suit as the last visitor, but this time reduced to rags. A skeletal hand reached out from within the remnants of the suit and grasped Scrooge tightly by the arm. Again he found himself flying through the night air with the ghost before finally landing in a cemetery. "Why have you brought me here?" said Scrooge. The apparition did not reply and merely pointed at two men emerging from the mist. Scrooge recognised them as colleagues from the property financing sector. "Hey! It's me - your old friend Scrooge!" he shouted, but the men could not hear him. The first said to the other: "Well, that was the most depressing funeral I've ever attended. Why did we ever bother coming along?" "Good question," replied his colleague, "it's not like anyone actually liked the horrible old man. He's ruined the sector - and us into the bargain. There are no developers left to finance!" "At least we had some fun putting the inscription on his grave stone," said the first man. "May he burn in banking hell!" "For sure he will - and much good will all that money he's hoarded do him down there," said the other, as the two men walked off into the fog, laughing grimly to themselves. Scrooge, turning to the ghost, said: "Who were they talking about? Who could be so horrible that these friends of mine speak about him in such a way?" The phantom remained silent and waved his hand, parting the mist. There before them lay a simple grave stone, on which was written:
HERE LIES EBENEZER SCROOGE AND THE REAL ESTATE SECTOR HE TOOK WITH HIM "Oh, mercy!" exclaimed Scrooge, falling to his knees. "What can I do to stop this happening?? I promise I will provide development loans and refinance existing ones and help the Developer family with all their projects. I promise!"

The end of it...
"I promise, I promise, I..." Scrooge had repeated this many times before he suddenly realised that he was back in his bed. It was morning and the church bells were ringing. Through the window he could see that the fog had cleared and flakes of snow were gently falling to the ground. He ran out into the snow-covered street, still in his night gown.
"Why are those bells ringing, young master?" he asked of a passing boy. "It's Christmas Day, sir!" replied the urchin. "Christmas Day?" Scrooge's thoughts immediately turned to the Developer family. "Wait here!" he told the boy, rushing back into his house. He returned with a quill and some parchments. After scribbling something on them, he handed the papers to the boy. "What's all this, sir?" "It's an order for a turkey from the local butcher and a loan refinancing deal. I want you to run as fast as your legs can carry you, pick up the turkey, and take it and the loan to Bob Developer who lives over there. And here's some credit for yourself too, if you ever think of investing in some property of your own," explained Scrooge, writing out another loan for the boy. That day, the Developers had as their guest of honour at the Christmas table none other than Mr Scrooge himself. After the turkey had been eaten, the two children happily sang carols for their esteemed guest. "God bless us, every one!" said Bob, standing for a toast. "And especially you, Mr Scrooge! Now we know that every Christmas from now on will be a joyous one with you helping the business to grow." "I promise to do just that, Bob!" said Scrooge. And he was true to his word. Tiny Tim grew up to be a fine, strong Developer, and the market recovered - with no little help from Scrooge, who from that day on was always glad to lend money to anyone and everyone (as long as a specified level of pre-leasing had been secured).

A Merry Christmas to one and all in real estate!

Nathan North (with apologies to Charles Dickens)