Two in the
afternoon and Santa was weary. His back was playing up from sitting
on the same uncomfortable stool all day, his head was spinning and
ached mercilessly from the incessant chirpy music, his chin was sore
from inquisitive kids tugging at his beard to see if it was real –
of course it was – and most of all he was totally, absolutely, sick
of those whining little kids, and worse still, their parents. What a
place to spend the last few weeks before Christmas: in a grotty
grotto in a large cheapskate department store, but, like every one
else these days, he needed the money, even if it was minimum wage.
So here he was with an annoyingly precocious boy on his knee. This
horrid little snob, in his pristine school uniform, was holding up a
long queue of disgruntled parents, with even more disgruntled
children, as he recited his interminable list of overpriced demands.
His smug middle class parents looked on, with grinning superiority,
as snobby junior took another deep breath, fixed another look of
concentration, and continued:
“An Action Man, a train set, a Scalextric, a fire engine, a bow and
arrow set, a PlayStation, a cowboy's outfit, an iPod, Lego, a laptop
– a proper one mind: no less than 8 Gigs of RAM – a toy garage,
some cars to go with it, a Barbie Doll-”
“A Barbie Doll!” exclaimed Santa.
“Santa, dear-oh-dear, your not sexist are you.”
“Course not, no, course not, don't think that lad. Just… Just…”
Posts
