Thinking about everything the big guy with the white beard has to put up with, this story somehow developed. I hope he’s OK 😀
I hadn’t been feeling well for a couple of weeks now. Although I’d finally managed to get an appointment at the doctors it didn’t seem to have done much good. In the run up to Christmas the world and his wife seemed to have snuffles and sniffles, so I was in and out within three minutes and wasn’t given a chance to explain my symptoms.
He didn’t want to hear about the skin peeling off my arms and legs, losing my memory and generally feeling my brain was on go-slow. I was packed off with a prescription for a tonic.
‘Don’t forget you’re not a young man any more. This depressing weather often brings out our aches and pains. You’ll be fine once the spring comes. If it’s not better then come back and see me again. Next!’
I’d never been a hypochondriac. In fact my medical record contained little more than my Name, address, date of birth and treatment for when I broke my leg playing football. I was beginning to feel I’d have been better off with the witch doctor from my recent business trip to the Caribbean.
As an investigative reporter I had only been trying to discover facts, but it was probably just as well my flight home was booked for the day after I met the Shaman. Thinking back, that was when all this started; the rotting flesh, sometimes having my words come out as grunts and moans instead of making sense, and the urge to bite people.
Feeling scared for my sanity I booked the Christmas week off, stocked up with enough food and drink to keep me going until the New Year, and prepared to hibernate with just the TV for company.
All was going well, and I was dozing on the settee watching a repeat of an old Christmas show when a commotion outside made we wake with a start. Glancing at the mantelpiece clock I realised it was just before midnight on the night before Christmas, but it wasn’t a mouse that had disturbed me.
Peering through the net curtains I could make out several large animals blocking the road. I turned to find a big guy with a sack on his shoulders walking ash all over my newly cleaned carpet.
It was too much; I’d already spent a fortune on presents for my nieces and nephews, without wasting the £70 I’d been ripped off for the steam cleaning. In a rage I turned and went for the intruder, and managed to get in a good bite to the neck, despite his fluffy white beard.
The red mist cleared, and as I came to my senses I realised who the mystery prowler actually was. I’m sorry kids. How was I to know Santa Claus still had me on his ‘good-guys’ list?
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