Christmas stress can impact anyone.
Kevin Page is a teller of tall tales with a firm belief that laughter helps avoid frown lines. Page has been a journalist for many years and has been writing a column since 2017.
OPINION
So here we are in the run up to Christmas and some folk are getting a little bit, well, let’s just say “tetchy”.
Like the bloke at the mechanics place I took my car to.
The one who, through gritted teeth, told me my car was just fine and any vibration I might be feeling under my foot was most likely the road surface.
Good point, I thought. The roads are a bit dodgy this time of year, what with all the summer works going on and the amount of traffic on them. He could be right.
I was just about to fully accept his explanation when he went a bit further.
“Of course, I’d be happy to go for a drive with you and see what all the fuss is about.”
Ouch! A little bit of sarcasm tossed in there but I figured he’d probably had a tough week.
All those last-minute jobs coming in. All those pedantic owners not used to the settling down noises of the new(ish) car they’d bought not long ago.
Besides, his thin, forced smile also left me with the feeling it was possible only one occupant of the vehicle would return to base if I did take him up on the offer.
“Nope,” he’d say to the police detectives who would inevitably turn up at the workshop two weeks from now, inquiring about my whereabouts.
“Not seen him since he jumped out of the car and ran off into the bush on that desolate stretch of highway known as Axe Murderers Alley. No idea what happened to him.”
Gulp.
Anyway. As I say. Some folk are a little stressed aren’t they?
It’s understandable perhaps, what with all that Christmas entails. And from what I’ve heard from the Boomerang Child this week, even the Main Man can get a bit tense.
I mean there’s all those gifts to wrap, miles to travel and chimneys to clamber down.
And somewhere before all that Santa also has to find time to meet with all the little cherubs of the world to discuss their “requirements”.
That’s where the Boomerang Child’s Yuletide tale comes in.
She and partner Builder Boy took their two cherubs, aged 3 and 1, to meet the big fellow this week.
The event was widely advertised, along with a sausage sizzle for the kids, and when they arrived at Santa’s makeshift Warehouse tent, oops I mean “Christmas Grotto”, they found a line stretching to the North Pole. If you know what I mean.
So, ever the organiser, the Boomerang Child sent Builder Boy off to get a couple of sossies for the kids while she and they lined up.
As is the way with these things, he returned with the sausages, each wrapped in a nice slice of bread, just as the kids were about to enter the tent, oops again, “grotto”.
So, not wanting them to go to waste and ravenously hungry after a busy morning’s labour, he devoured them and went back to get two more.
Inside the grotto, Boomerang Child was to find a character who was more miserable than merry.
According to her, it was pretty obvious Santa had had enough of Christmas.
Day after day of kids sitting on his knee, mums and dads shrieking with delight at the antics of their littlies – naughty and nice, all sorts of requests and promises made ... he was tired and peeved.
Presumably, he was thinking roll on next year when I will get that job in a bar on the Gold Coast instead, away from this mayhem.
So, when Master One and Miss Three approached for the expected welcome and photo there was complete silence.
Everyone in the place, including the photographer person, was a little taken aback.
The Boomerang Child says she can’t be sure but she reckoned a word was uttered – under a big white bushy beard of course – which sounded a bit like the word “hit” but with one letter missing, if you get my drift.
Anyway.
The kids were hoisted on to the waiting knees and everybody cocked their ears for a Christmassy sentence from Santa.
Something. Anything.
And what did they get? Nothing.
Not a “Ho,ho,ho!”, “Merry Christmas!”, “Have you been good?”, What would you like for Christmas?” ... Nothing.
Naturally, this had an effect on the kids.
Taking their lead from Santa they sat in awkward silence. Not really knowing what to do.
Obviously, they’d been told by Mum and Dad all about Santa and what he does and says and how he acts.
This was so far from their expectations they plainly were confused. Bewildered even.
Outside the tent, dad had returned with two more sausages and no one to give them to. He says he thought about it for a while – honestly – but gave in and ate them too because he was still starving.
Then he went back to queue up for two more. I should point out to be fair he’s paying for the sausages each time. He’s not depriving other children of sustenance.
Anyway.
Back inside the grotto, the Boomerang Child is standing there waiting for some response from Santa who, she says, was basically just a big red blob on a poorly painted chair – with a personality to match.
But, still, there’s nothing. Eventually, she decides to end the stand-off and usher the kids out.
She buys the obligatory picture because it provides a record of sorts but, it has to be said, it is unlikely to find a space on the lounge wall.
Thankfully it will have some use as a conversation piece and will be pulled out each Christmas to help illustrate the story of Miserable Santa.
So, she gets the kids outside where they encounter Dad, who, sheepishly, imparts the news they’d run out of sossies. Groan.
I found myself thinking back to a time 100 years ago when my brother and I were accompanied on a winter walk through London with our parents.
As we passed one of those recessed shop fronts out boomed the biggest voice I think I’d ever heard to that stage in my life.
“Ho, ho, ho!! Merry Christmas!”.
It was Santa. All big, bright, jolly ... everything you knew Santa to be. And he wanted us to come say hello. My brother and I, just littlies ourselves at the time, didn’t hesitate and immediately wandered over.
But of course this was London. The West End, in fact, where money is to be made with side hustles on every corner.
This was no different. No sooner had my brother and I stood next to Santa than one of his “little helpers” appeared from nowhere with a camera.
He’d happily take our picture for a price, he informed my dad.
Now I don’t know whether they thought we were naive tourists or something but they badly misjudged my dad.
He was born of the streets, knew what was going on and wasn’t prepared to pay the exorbitant price they were trying to extract.
Naturally, there was a bit of cockney haggling but agreement could not be reached.
So my dad said no, walked over to Santa, prised us from his grip (I kid you not) and off we went.
For good measure, Santa and his little helper shouted a few phrases after us as we ambled away. From memory, they were not of the Christmas variety.
That was London for you back in the day.
Back in good old NZ just this last week, the Boomerang Child and Builder Boy drove home with their two littlies trying to explain how sometimes people can be a bit grumpy at times – even Santa – and why there sometimes isn’t enough food to go round.
To make it up they’d all have a nice barbecue dinner at home.
They’d just have to stop at the supermarket on the way home and buy some sausages.
The woman was shaken by the incident.