On Christmas Eve, the king invited his prime minister to join him for their traditional evening walk through the city. It was a yearly ritual the king cherished—quietly strolling among his people, admiring the twinkling lights, and offering a royal wave here and there, even when no one recognized him in his “disguise” of a fake mustache and oversized scarf.
This year, however, the king was in a frugal mood. “I enjoy Christmas cheer,” he said, “but I don’t want my subjects spending too much on decorations. Lights are lovely, but electricity bills are not.”
The prime minister, ever the loyal yes-man, nodded vigorously. “Wise as always, Your Majesty. Perhaps we could subtly encourage… candlelight cheer?”
The king brightened. “Yes! Natural lighting! Environmentally friendly and wallet-friendly. Let’s go see how they’re doing.”
As they wandered into the first street, they noticed one house lit up brighter than the royal ballroom during a royal wedding—LEDs blinking in six colors, inflatable snowmen doing the floss dance, and a mechanical reindeer that actually galloped in place.
The king squinted. “I think I just had a seizure. Who lives here?”
“Minister of Energy,” the prime minister muttered.
They knocked. The door opened to a man wearing sunglasses—indoors.
“Merry Christmas, Sire! Sorry about the brightness, but I’m just testing a prototype for national lighting efficiency. Very scientific.”
The king nodded slowly. “It’s lovely. My retinas are on fire, but lovely.”
The next house had far more modest decorations: one strand of lights, slightly tangled, and a cardboard cutout of a snowflake taped to the mailbox.
“This is more like it!” the king exclaimed.
“That’s the Minister of Finance,” the prime minister said. “He cut his own Christmas budget by 70%.”
“Promote that man,” the king said, rubbing his hands.
As they walked further, they saw a crowd gathering near the town square, where a large Christmas tree stood completely unlit.
“Did someone forget to plug it in?” the king asked.
“No, Sire,” a child nearby explained. “The mayor said electricity costs too much, so he just painted lightbulbs on with glow-in-the-dark paint.”
The king looked impressed. “That’s…actually rather creative.”
“Only works for ten minutes after sunset,” the child added.
“Oh.”
They continued on, eventually reaching the bakery, which had gone all out—festive music, warm lights, and the scent of cinnamon in the air. A huge sign read: ‘Christmas Cookies for the King—Half Price if You Spot Him!’
The king blinked. “Do I count if I spot myself?”
“Technically,” the prime minister said, “you’re incognito. So yes.”
They both walked in and got cookies for half price. The baker winked at the king. “Nice mustache, Your Majesty. You come here every year.”
The king looked stunned. “You knew?”
“Of course,” she said. “But we also know you’d rather not make a fuss. Plus, you tip well.”
Blushing slightly, the king bit into a gingerbread man and muttered, “Royal discretion is hard work.”
As they returned to the palace, the king patted the prime minister on the back. “I think the people are doing just fine with their decorations. There’s cheer, there’s light, and most importantly, no one has sold a goat to pay their electric bill.”
The prime minister nodded. “And we even got cookies.”
That night, the king sent out a royal decree: “Celebrate wisely. Use your lightbulbs and your imagination. But above all, save a cookie for your king.”
