Carol’s Column

Putting on a charitable face for the season

Christmas is nearly here. I know this because inexplicable things are happening around me.

For the past 10 months petrol has been pumped into my ancient jalopy by a kipper-faced man who looks like an apprentice morgue attendant. In 300-and-something days he has never smiled. In fact, were it not for the fact that his arms moved in order to attach the petrol hose to my car, remove it and accept payment, I might have mistaken him for a machine.

Why, you might wonder, do I persist in filling up my ancient jalopy at this particular garage? Because it's convenient and these days, convenience is all.

Then yesterday morning he greeted me with a cheery “hello!” and proceeded to fill up my car, smiling all the while.

I got such a fright that I almost choked on the petrol fumes.

“It's a lovely day, isn't it,” he purred as he took my money.

What, I wondered, could have caused this rapid transformation. And then I knew. He said: “It's nearly Christmas. Just a few more weeks and then it's the season of goodwill.”

I was noncommittal as I paid him the exact amount I owed for the petrol.

“Yes,” he added, “all those extra Christmas expenses, presents. One has to scratch around to find those extra rands.” By now he resembled the Sphinx, his smile glued eternally to his face.

The most remarkable thing happened. My arms suddenly became too short for my pockets and happily, I was unable to find the extra remuneration for which he was angling. Feeling comfortably Scroogish in nature, I drove away.

That was the beginning. Since then, the “attack” is increasing. At the last count, 46 day-glo orange dustbin men who claimed to work for the municipality have knocked on my door shaking boxes. They can all prove they are genuine workers, with certificates, licenses, books and identity documents. And each one affirms that he emptied my dustbins during the past 12 months.

The supermarket down the road, typical of many others I've visited around town, has a staff collectively so sour they could pickle a cucumber. Then last week I filled my trolley with necessary staples such as bran flakes with grated fruit and nuts which make your stomach work like a Swiss watch, chopped herring for extra energy and sunflower seeds for chewing to exercise the mandibles. When I arrived at the cashier, I was thrown when she greeted me with a smile.

“Hello,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?” I retorted to this unfamiliar word. Then my eyes dropped to the small tin she was rattling in my face. Decorated in Christmasy paper it was labelled “staff”. Aha.

The parking garage attendant keeps winking at me. I think there's purpose behind his wink. And yesterday morning I received a long-delayed letter from the Receiver of Revenue. It wasn't a Christmas card. To the contrary, it was a letter requesting I make an unoptional Christmas donation to fiscal revenue.

But this morning was the highlight. There was an insistent ringing at the door. I opened it to find a red garbed fellow with black boots, white curly hair and hirsute white beard.

“I'm Father Christmas,” he said.

Well, who else would it have been? Winnie Mandela?

“I'm collecting donations for the Siberian Father Christmas Christmas fund for retrenched Father Christmases. I'd appreciate your Christmas spirit.”

I liked his innovative style so I put a few rand in his box.

As he turned, I heard a clinking of bottles from the sack he was carrying on his back.

His Christmas spirit.

■