Dear Friends

It’s been too long, but much has been happening. One project I’ve been working on is to invite a guest author to write on their subject of choice. I’ve approached several Big Names, some of them so often that I received a cease and desist order. Undeterred, I’ve continue to scour the literary world for a suitable personage. And now I have one. He’s not exactly literary but he is well known. I’m grateful to him for penning this at short notice.

Enjoy

When I was a little boy, I had no idea that I would become a celebrity. I didn’t know what a celebrity was, and if I had known, it’s most likely that I would have wanted to be a sports celebrity, which did not happen. I still think I could have been a good basketball player as I’m a dab hand at throwing things, but fate had other plans for me.

I grew up in rural Australia, which always surprises people. It was a simple childhood, where me and my brothers (I have five, which also surprises people) learnt how to herd kangaroos, not an easy task I can tell you. Once you have the lasso over the kangaroo’s head, you have to jump on quickly and try to stay put, something that took me a good few years to master.

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I was good at geography at school, a skill that stood me in good stead when I grew older, as well as history, which I loved best. I particularly liked to read about the lives of the saints. My parents couldn’t understand it, nor my brothers either. There was one particular saint who inspired me, a Turkish guy who lived in the 3rd century, because he was the patron saint of children (and sailors, but that didn’t interest me as I’d never seen the sea), and sure as heck I was a child.

Anyway, after I grew to be a young man, a life in the outback didn’t appeal. I told my parents I was going to travel the world and help children. They looked at me as if I was mad, and asked me why anyone would want to travel the world when they could stay home and herd kangaroos, like my brothers (I was the second youngest and had hopes that my little brother would turn out more like me, but he didn’t).

Once they saw I was set on my dream, they said they wouldn’t stop me, but they still didn’t approve of this gadding about, nor that I considered it my vocation, something I let slip when I should have kept my mouth shut.

So off I went, in search of something, as young men do. I fell in with some wild types over the years, and never settled to a proper job till I was closer to the end of my life than the beginning. Along the way I met my wife, and we grew old together. No kids apart from those we helped, and boy, did we help them once I found my groove. Of course, there was a lot of training along the way. I have to be in millions of places all at once, but that’s the nature of being a delivery man. The job entails getting dirty from time to time, and squeezing into tight spots, but fortunately I’ve never got stuck. There’s a lot eating on the job, which you might think was a wonderful perk but I mostly get mince pies, which I don’t even like.

Another perk is that I have my own workshop to make the things I deliver. I have some strange helpers but we get on all right, though sometimes their eternal cheeriness and constant singing gets on my nerves. The best thing is they don’t want to be paid, and don’t demand workers’ rights. Mind you, it’s only seasonal work. I don’t know what they do the rest of the year, but they turn up punctually on the 1^st December and work like crazy for weeks. I don’t how they do it. I’d die of exhaustion. Still, they never let me down. Everything is always ready for the 24^th, which is when my crazy work starts.

First, all through November I have to let my beard and moustache grow. Not only let it grow, but it has to be perfectly groomed. Some years I’ve had to put rollers in to get it to curl properly. Also, I have to dress up. I don’t know who put that in my contract. The costume is red, trimmed with white fur, with a hat to match, black shiny boots and a belt. Oh, and I have to put on lots of weight in the previous months so it fits me, then I spend the next few months losing it. Can’t be good for my health, but if I have to do it so I can make children happy, so be it.

My transport is unique. I’m obliged to use a flying sleigh, pulled by half a dozen flying reindeers. When I do my deliveries, I land on the roof of the building and enter the property by whatever means are available. Chimneys are the traditional form of entry but these days I use windows, lifts, front and back doors, anything that gives me access. I work only on the 25^th December from midnight till 3am, but by now I’ve mastered the art of ubiquity so it’s not as stressful as it used to be. After I’m done, I come back to the North Pole, replete with mince pies and tipsy from sherry. The reindeers have had their fill of carrots, and fly off to wherever they live for the rest of the year. Which reminds me, when I say North Pole, I do not mean the geographical north pole. My North Pole is a mythical place that only exists for 4 weeks in December. I do not know what happens to it after that.

Another perk of the job is that my wife and I don’t grow older than we are now. I don’t know how they do that, but so far, after more than one hundred years in the job, it’s worked. Of course, a lot has changed in those one hundred years, and I can’t tell you how much I love watching television. So many channels! The news is never good so I tend to avoid that, as it’s often about children being hurt, which I can’t stand. I like gardening and running, and I dabble in painting, though I’m not very good. My contract forbids me to tell everyone where I live, but all the letters to the North Pole are re-directed to me.

So that’s my life. It’s rare to fulfil your dreams, and I’ve no idea how or why I got through the auditions, but I did. Pay is basic, but I have lots of free time, and living accommodation is thrown in. I don’t know what my dear parents and brothers would have thought about how I ended up, but I hope they’d be proud. One thing’s for sure, I was right to get out of the kangaroo herding business. The market collapsed years ago.

Oh, one last point. Those guys you see in shopping malls surrounded by sparkling lights and a sack of tat? They’re imposters. When you next see one, pull off his beard.

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Merry Christmas, if you’re into that sort of thing.