Today I met Santa for the very first time in his Christmas Cave which, peculiarly, is not located (as one has been led to believe and would expect) at the North Pole – but on the fifth floor of David Jones in Sydney Australia (I assume elf labour is cheap there). Amongst the rambunctious rabble of terrible two-year-olds, thrashing three-year-olds and flailing four-year-olds, one would have been forgiven for assuming the one-and-a-half hour queue would end with front-row seats to a Robbie Williams concert. Sadly not…
Santa was a sad, weary shadow of the jolly red giant we’re accustomed to seeing in his Xmas themed tableware and promotional DVDs. He didn’t seem at all happy to see me, which I found rather odd as I have a tendancy to stop strange shoppers in their tracks with a well-aimed blast from my cute ray (set to stun).
I feel sorry for Santa – in his plastic palace with his bodgy beard – and feel that life for Santa would be so much better if only he had help. There must be plenty of room in his Christmas Cave – perhaps in one of the other four caves I saw that looked almost exactly like the one in which I met Santa (but I think that’s where he keeps his extensive collection of novelty fondue sets) and, sadly, there is only one Santa – and he is very sad indeed!
