It must have sounded so promising – a coveted job as part of a high-profile family. It would have been too good to resist. But even things that seem enormously exciting can quickly lose their glittery charm. What starts with a bright, warm burst of optimism quickly turns cold as the bitter wind of reality sweeps in. Imagine; your eyes scanning the classifieds when you fatefully stumble across the following words: Wanted – Mrs Claus. No previous experience necessary. It would be as though all your Christmases had come at once. How apt.
It must have sounded so promising – a coveted job as part of a high-profile family. It would have been too good to resist. But even things that seem enormously exciting can quickly lose their glittery charm. What starts with a bright, warm burst of optimism quickly turns cold as the bitter wind of reality sweeps in. Imagine; your eyes scanning the classifieds when you fatefully stumble across the following words: Wanted – Mrs Claus. No previous experience necessary. It would be as though all your Christmases had come at once. How apt.
Like much of Melbourne, I was out doing some last minute shopping. In a major victory, I had secured a parking spot in the multilevel car park where I’d noticed the levels were no longer named after colours or numbers but after Dante’s nine circles of hell instead. I was parked in ‘Purgatory’, I think. Approaching the entire exercise as though I was undertaking a military extraction operation, I moved quickly to get in and out in the shortest possible time possible. To reinforce the point, I was dressed head to toe in military fatigues.
The Department store was drenched in Christmas Spirit. It was as though a gigantic Yuletide cloud had recently passed overhead resulting in a downpour of tinsel, coloured foil and other assorted holiday decorations. Music seeped through the speakers. Personally I was not convinced that the song, ‘I’m Feeling Sexual’ by Neiked featuring Dyo was quite the right choice for Christmas. Despite this setback, I was feeling pretty good about myself having already picked up several sure-fire smash-hit presents, including a Star Wars Chess set that saw Luke and Darth play out their oedipal supremacy death-match as nature intended – on a chess board. As I passed by the Last-Minute-Office-Kris-Kringle aisle past something I like to think of as ‘Hamper Mountain’, I noticed the kerfuffle.
Throughout the store snaked a long line of people. This serpentine queue of human desperation seemed not to be going very far very quickly, although I could see many of those lining up had dressed for the occasion. My interest was piqued. In fact, it’s fair to say that my interest was super-piqued with a cherry on top. Could it be that these well-dressed people all knew something I didn’t? Was there a present even more awesome than a Star Wars Chess set (as unlikely as this may seem) or had the queue for the toilets simply gotten out of hand? I needed to know the answer.
Like an icebreaker driving into the Antarctic ice, I pushed through crowds of people. Standing on the very tips of my toes, I saw him. Sitting astride the kind of golden throne usually preserved for either monarchs or gangsta rappers, Father Christmas sat like a cashed-up beneficent overlord, posing for photos. It was clear he was going to be there for some time, such was the demand. I instantly resolved not to join the queue. Firstly, I didn’t have time. Also, there’s something sad if not a little bit creepy about turning up for a Santa photo by yourself.
Leaving the Department store, the sounds of ‘Neiked’ if not ‘Dyo’ still ringing in my ears, I headed out into the great expanse of the shopping centre. Several hours later, laden with loot and my blood sugar levels in free-fall, I staggered past the welcoming arms of the in-store alarm barriers and back to the Department store. Instantly, my ears were caressed by the gentle sounds of Neiked featuring Dyo and ‘I’m Feeling Sexual’ which, I’ll admit, was starting to grow on me. Whether this was an encore performance or some outrageously extended remix version is hard to say.
The line in front of St Nick was resolutely long. But, a mere twenty metres to the right, sat Mrs Claus, skimming through messages on her iPhone, without a soul to speak to. She cut a lonely figure, which is probably why she was attempting to FaceTime Rudolph. It’s easy to imagine the discussion back at Santa’s workshop – if we split up, we can get through twice as many as many photos. How could they have predicted that a cruel and unfeeling world would callously under-estimate the contribution of Mrs. Claus to the whole operation? As she sat that there, as lonely as a death row inmate, the only consolation I could offer was escape.
Mrs Claus and I busted out behind the menswear section to the car park. The engine started and the radio came to life (naturally, it was Neikid featuring Dyo and their Yuletide classic ‘I’m Feeling Sexual’). As I headed down the exit ramp towards both the Nepean Highway and, more generally, freedom; I was both surprised and alarmed to find my passenger standing on her seat, her torso protruding through the sunroof, shouting ‘so long suckers’ at the top of her lungs.
Surprised because moments earlier she’d seemed so placid. Alarmed because I knew that at the bottom of the ramp was one of those low hanging metal bars that are the scourge of large four-wheel drive vehicles and if my guest wasn’t careful, she was in danger of a substantial conk to the noggin. The echoing clang of metal colliding with flesh told me my fears were well founded. As a slightly concussed Mrs Claus slumped into my seat, she leaned over and said, ‘Take me to the North Pole.’