AN ODD REQUEST FOR CHRISTMAS

I had to do it. I had to write a story about Father Christmas.

“You can see it’s there. It’s there in front of your eyes!”

But the frog-eyed weary Santa couldn’t see anything. It had been a hard year. So he shook his head and scowled at his good lady Mother Claus who was helping him dress and held up a shiny pair of red boxers for him to put on..

“It was a hell of a night,” he moaned.

“But we’re off to a party,” she said firmly. “You know as well as I do that every year after the Big Day we get invited to Downing Street for a right old knees up and as many subsidised pints of whatever you like to quaff as you can force into that enormous stomach of yours.”

“I’ve gone on the wagon. I’ve turned tee-total. I never want to see another drop for as long as I live,” he replied glumly.

“Or until next year,” she admonished him. “Now come on, wash behind your ears, pull on your nice shiny red boxers and get yourself ready!”

“You wouldn’t want to do anything but get your head down if you’d had as much sherry as I’ve been expected to throw down my neck this past twenty-four hours,” growled her red-faced spouse as he dried his cascading beard. “I’m even a teensy bit tiddly!”

“Oh dear, I feel so sorry for you,” she teased.

“And then there’s nowhere to take a leak when I’m out and full of the stuff without sly little kids peeping out of bedroom windows waiting to catch sight of me delivering goodies to their houses,” he moaned, “and even though I notice ‘em I don’t tell on them. After all, it is Christmas and I can’t bear the idea of being the one to tell stories about peeping kiddies to their doting parents.”

“You’re a big softy, my big cuddly fat Santa,” smiled his wife, “but whatever excuses you make we’re still going to the jolly event in Downing Street. The woman who lives there is most insistent. Apparently she’s expecting you to take her a present.”

“She is? So she’s under eighteen, is she?”

Mother Claus laughed out loud. “Hardly! She’s well past middle age! But she’s still expecting a present from you. She phoned me earlier, while you were passing through Transylvania on your way to the Mediterranean. She said that we’re definitely expected at her party, that Boris would be there with his favourite joke about straight bananas and that she badly needs a very special present.”

“Did she say what it is she’s so desperate for?” asked a now curious Santa.

“She was a bit vague. Something about some seeds. She wants some special seeds and if you give her some she’ll be grateful for the rest of her days in charge of the country.”

“You mean, she’ll be grateful for a week and a bit?” grunted Santa, tucking his nice woolly shirt into the waist-band of his nice shiny red boxers.

“I didn’t like to ask what kind of seeds she wanted, though,” sighed his beautiful wife, and, “you really will have to lose a few of those pounds that you’re carrying on your belly,” she added, “you’re beginning to look a bit fat.”

“I need the blubber against the Himalayan cold when I’m flitting past mountains,” he grunted, “there’s nothing so cold as high up a really big mountain, you know, what with howling winds and sheets of snow and stuff.”

“You poor soul,” she sympathised. “But have you any idea what kind of seeds she wants? After all, when you organise the Christmas presents for kiddies they are quite explicit about what they want.”

“And it’s no longer wooden dolls or tinplate coaches,” he grumbled, “these days they want technology! They want tablets that talk! Telephones that take photographs! And the little girls even want dolls that wet themselves and cry about needing a new nappy! I get exhausted just thinking about it. So what kind of seeds might she be wanting?”

“I’ve no idea. I’m not a clairvoyant Santa, you know! I can’t read little kiddie’s nice innocent minds let alone complex and ridiculously obscure minds like hers. I could take her a few apple pips, I suppose, but they grow into apple trees. Or I might visit a garden centre at the dead of night and purloin a few flower seeds … nice chrysanthemums or something like that.”

“We can’t have father Christmas up in front of the judge for seed-stealing!” warned Mother Claus, “I tell you what. I’ll give her a call back and ask her what she means by seeds. She must have some sort of idea about it or she wouldn’t have asked in the first place.”

“As long as I can get hold of some before we go,” growled Santa, “these shiny red boxers are a bit naughty, the way they cling to me! Where did you get them from?”

“They were a present. He hoped you’d like them.”

“Who did? I meet a lot of people you might refer to as “he”, you know.”

“That nice man with a beard, a neat little one, not a great bush like yours.. I think he’s a politician, though I don’t know much about politicians. He said he won’t be going to the Downing Street bash, though. He said he wouldn’t be welcome there.”

“Well, I like the style of underwear he chooses. Now get on the phone to that Downing Street woman and ask her straight, what kind of seeds does she want for Christmas.”

Mother Claus picked up the phone and rang the same number that had called her earlier. It was answered after quite a lot of rings and she was on the point of hanging up when she heard a voice on the other end.

“Yes?”

“Hello, this is Mother Claus speaking.

“Yes?”

“You rang earlier and asked for a present...”

“Yes?”

“You said you wanted some seeds. As a present for Christmas.”

“Yes?”

“But you never said, specifically, what kind of seeds you want my husband to bring.”

Mother Christmas listened to the voice at the other end. It spoke at some length and Santa’s lovely wife frowned like she’d rarely frowned before. Then she said,

“I don’t think there’s any such thing.”

And there was more talking from the other end of the phone. Then Santa, bemused, watched as his wife hung up.

Mother Claus, frowned again and shook her head.

“She said she wants seeds to grow a magic money tree, and when I said there’s no such thing she sort of went crazy and shouted at me as if I was beneath her!”

“But you’re not.”

“I know that, dearest husband. But she said it’s her job to say there;’s no such thing as magic money trees and I should learn to keep my mouth shut! And then she went on to insult you. She said you’re a fat wastrel who would be better off researching magic money trees and not delivering expensive toys to urchins who don’t deserve them. Then she said the party’s off and anyway we’re not invited.

Santa grinned at her and danced a little jig, making his fat stomach wobble and his shiny new red boxers crackle with static.

“Then it’s time for bed,” he boomed, “I’m worn out!”

© Peter Rogerson 05.12.17