Poor Old Santa seems to have had a hard time of it lately. Some friends in a writer’s group seem determined to make his life difficult, and I didn’t help with my Zombie Christmas story. His problems included missing stockings, no Christmas tree, the cupboard under the stairs and using Trip Advisor, hence the odd references.
Someone came up with the glorious word ‘Santacide’ so I thought it was about time we started giving him a hand so I can get back on his ‘good girls’ list. 😀
I’ve had enough of my husband.
He has no proper job, spends the whole year lazing around and is forever disappearing to his workshop with his weird friends.
Then in the middle of winter he vanishes for days on end, taking some of the Caribou from the fields with him.
When he finally returns he always has a stomach ache from all the crap he’s been eating while he has been away. His favourite suit would be covered with soot that would take me weeks to wash out, and he would be full of stories of his travels.
Don’t get me wrong, I am quite happy for him to have a holiday once a year. I had even offered to go on Trip Advisor to help him plan it, but he insisted he needed to be unrestricted so he could get to all the countries he needed to visit.
Although I’d asked him a dozen times to bring in the tree there was still no sign of it when he went missing as usual. The final straw was when I discovered my stockings had gone missing.
At first I thought I might have mislaid them in the box under the stairs, but after pulling everything out I knew who was the culprit. Just as I was starting to push it all back I noticed a young guy with floppy hair and glasses sitting in the corner. ‘He went thataway,’ he said as he pointed to the farthest crook leading into the darkness.
‘Right,’ I thought. ‘This needs sorting, once and for all.’ I hitched up my skirts and despite not being a Skinny Minnie realised that if he could get through with his fat stomach I sure as hell could.
It was a bit of a tight squeeze, but after I forced my way through the narrow opening I was confronted by a winter wonderland. It had been dull and raining when I glanced out of the kitchen window, but here the softly falling snow reflected in the moonlit night.
A noise overhead made me look up at the sky, then have to jump aside as the animals skidded to a halt next to me, dragging the sleigh behind them.
“Sweetheart, what are you doing here?” Nick asked
“Finding out what you’ve been up to all these years. Rudolph! Stop nudging me. Well? What have you got to say for yourself? And where are my stockings? And why didn’t you bring in the tree as I asked?”
“I’m sorry my love, but you don’t know how hard it is; sorting through all the letters, keeping the elves in order, making sure all the presents are ready on time. Then there are all these new buildings to find, and people move without telling me. It’s a nightmare. I don’t think I can do it for much longer. It’s why I’m always grumpy when I get back. And some of these kids today are so ungrateful. I give them the latest technowobble, and they still complain because it’s not the ‘must-have’ colour.
“In the old days they were happy with an orange, a few sweets and a dolly or a toy soldier. We could just carry on production from the previous year and everything was ready well before Christmas Eve. Now, as soon as we start production things change, and we spend more time updating the machinery than we do on actual production.”
“You silly old fool. Why didn’t you tell me the stress you were under? Right, let’s get the rest of these presents delivered. I’ll take the reins while you have a doze. From now on I’ll take care of all the letters, and don’t worry about the elves. I’m appointing myself factory manager and they’ll soon learn to do as they’re told otherwise they’ll be out on their big pointy ears.
“The only thing you’ve got to worry about is to make sure I have a tree and my stockings for next year. Now Dasher, now Dancer, and Prancer and Vixen. Let’s get this show on the road. From now on Mrs Claus is in charge!”