Mrs Claus peeked out of her cottage door and onto the icy flat wastes. She looked out as the wind and sleet cut into Santa as he struggled to load up his sledge. She watched as he trudged between workshop and sledge with box after box. Standing there in her deep red overcoat she watched with the door slightly ajar. Then, as the wind became more bitter, Santa fetched the reindeer from the barn and started to hitch them up. Just as he finished she open the door more fully, poked her head out and called out:
“A little something before you go?”
Santa looked up, nodded, smiled; it wasn't often Mrs Claus was generous; it was better to show willing than risk retribution later. He entered the kitchen and closed the door behind him. A lovely respite from the wind.
“Stick your feet up,” said Mrs Claus, hot toddy in hand.
“Ta.” Santa sat by the piping hot stove, took the glass and had a little sip. The warm felt good inside. “Not too much now, plenty to drink when I'm on me round.”
“You sure you won't let me this year?”
“You're getting on, you said it was hard, you know, after last year.”
”Man's work my dear.”
“Still, I'm fed up all stuck here, waiting.”
“I know me dear. We's all got our jobs to do.”
Mrs Claus went to the stove behind Santa. He relaxed and took another sip. This hot toddy was a good one.
Santa looked down, something was tightening around his belly, a rope, another rope, he was pulled back tightly into the chair. His arms tightened, handcuffs snapped against his wrists and pinned his arms to the chairs arms. That delicious hot toddy fell to the floor. His legs, pulled, pushed and bound to the chair. He was about to call out when gaffer tape was plastered across his mouth. He uttered a muffled scream. It was all over in seconds then Mrs Claus was standing in front of him, hands on hips, smiling.
“It's my turn, don't you think,” she said, starting to button up her coat.
Mrs Claus put some more coal on the stove and prodded it with a poker.
“You'll keep nice and warm now,” she said.
Moments later and the front door slammed behind her and Mrs Claus was gone. Santa uselessly struggled in the chair, swearing fit as no child should hear, not that they would have heard anything more then muffled venom.
A blow for good old fashioned, do it yourself, women's liberation. After all Santa is old and far too fat to deliver the toys.
“Ye-heeeeeeeeeeee,” Mrs Claus sang out as the sledge took off, climbed, and disappeared over the horizon.