Carol’s Column

A Christmas tale

IT'S not easy being Father Christmas these days.

It's not the little things that cause problems, such as when your suit doesn't fit and your acrylic permanent-curl beard keeps tickling your nose.

No — it's travel and transport that cause the problems.

Take Lance.

Last year our dear friend Lance decided to give his two little girls the surprise of their life.

A Christmas they'd never forget.

He hired a Santa Claus suit plus beard and cape and in the early hours of the morning, when even the Indian Mynahs were at rest, he donned his outfit, including his thigh-high fishing boots and dark glasses — for snow glare, you understand.

He placed his gaily-decorated bulging sack upon his padded shoulders and after much manoeuvring with a collapsible step-ladder, attempted to climb down his capacious chimney.

Wherein he got stuck.

The more he tried to dislodge himself, the more embedded in the chimney he became.

Until his wife, who had joined in the spirit of the occasion by pretending not to hear him, eventually recognised the note of distress in his agonised calls.

Always a woman of action, she called the police, fire brigade and a chimney sweep called Soggot.

After two hours of ceaseless but useless shoving and pushing by Soggot, the chimney was finally dismantled by the firemen.

And Lance was retrieved in one piece. More or less.

His neighbours on either side laid charges against him — accusing him of disturbing the Christmas peace and Lance sustained a fractured little finger on his left hand, received while trying to dislodge the sack of toys.

At 6am he collapsed in bed only to be woken 10 minutes later by shrieks of ecstatic joy from his two golden-haired moppets.

Said his youngest daughter, kissing him soundly awake and causing severe pain to his injured extremity: "Happy Christmas, Daddy.

"Guess who came down the chimney last night?"

Guess?

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