© Pierre Maré,
2004 - 2007
Offbeat 79
Christmas is almost upon us again. I sent a letter to Santa Clause asking for one of those luxury apartments on a residential cruise ship that perpetually circles the globe. I got a rather small lump of coal by way of return. Bah, humbug!
I sent another letter to him asking for some days of leave. His reply, containing yet another lump of coal, said I can take off Christmas Day and the day after, provided I don’t schedule any additional jobs, and as long as I get the work that I have in hand done now instead of slipping off for drinks at someone or other’s office Christmas party. An addendum, added in an archaic elfish script, suggested that there might be a few days open for me if I scale down my materialistic ambitions, but alas only in February 2008.
I am rather resentful of the old man’s attitude. In fact, I am considering lining the chimney with barbed wire and spiking the milk that is left out for him with laxatives. That should teach him. Ho, ho, ho!
It is not as if Father Christmas is that important anyway. For the last few years at least, I have been fulfilling his role, albeit with a bit of wincing as the bills mount up. There have been a number of painful moments as I drew my wallet, particularly this year.
My daughter is now at the brink of the discovery of materialism. She wants everything she sees. A quick count of the words she utters, factoring in the amount of glee as she utters them, seems to indicate that ‘shopping’ is her favourite activity. Anything that she doesn’t yet have will do.
Pink, glittery stuff, her vision of being a princess, ranks above everything, although for preference, it has to be Barbie. The early promise she showed with her interest in Spiderman seems to have diminished, condemning Mommy and Daddy to endless replays of mind-numbing videos filled with nauseatingly cute, pastel-coloured characters, wholesome values, strong feminine role models and happy endings culminating in marriages that you just know are never going to produce a single argument or a thrown tea cup.
On the bright side, Harry Potter seems to be gaining in her estimation. Somehow she saw a movie at one of her little friends’ houses, hence her familiarity. I had naively hoped that the far superior books would be her first experience of the character.
Harry Potter films have a tendency to become a bit of a trial as she registers her protests when we fast forward past the scary bits with the monsters that normally cause her to hide behind the couch. At least, unlike Barbie, Harry Potter does not induce the symptoms of diabetic coma in Mommy and Daddy, and Harry fights cool monsters which holds Daddy’s attention a bit longer than Barbie being maddeningly sensible and mature about everything in that irritatingly assured feminine way that women have.
The problem with all of this is that the role models seem to be encroaching. She identifies with Barbie, hence the pink, glittery ‘everything’. Daddy is developing large numbers of white hairs amongst his whiskers, so Daddy seems a shoe-in for the Santa Claus role.
Aside from the temptation to give everything a beloved child desires and to produce an adult with the spending habits of Immelda Marcos, the other problem that Daddy has is the fact that he has to stump for the goodies.
Santa has unlimited cheap labour, endless supplies of raw materials and a cost-free logistical operation that makes Daddy’s Christmas shopping trips seem utterly trivial. Either that, or Santa is being backed by a cartel of bankers who remember their Christmases fondly.
I thought of writing to the North Pole asking for a few elves that I could rent out as cheap labour to cover the bills, but this would probably lead to more lumps of coal, if not from Santa then definitely from the immigration authorities.
So for now it seems that my role as Santa will be limited. On the other hand, if I keep up the letter writing and the coals keep coming, I may be able to have a cheap Christmas turkey barbecue. Happy Christmas!
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