A word in Santa's ear

by MATT QUARTERMAINE

THIS Christmas I got a job as a Santa in a big department store. It's a tough job in the beard and the big red suit in the hot weather and I had to deal with five troublesome kids. As Santa, I wasn't allow to grant all the kids wishes, but I tried to give each of them what was best for them and would make them happy.

The first child to sit on my knee was a gum chewing Goth with too much eye make-up called Channel Ten, who asked for three new outfits for her Rove doll; a tiny television host figurine that comes complete with its very own gold Logie. She wanted a casual outfit for Rove to wear in his travel show called When I go A'Rovin', a funny outfit for his improvisation show called Thank God Your Rove and a doctor's outfit so Rove could be a grumpy doctor with a cane called Mansion. She admitted she really wanted another Rove doll, but I explained there was only one Rove doll and she would just have to make do.

The next child to sit on my knee was a chubby, spoilt little private school boy called Channel Nine, who wanted to be a millionaire. I told him to be a millionaire he would have to save a lot of money and he said he could cut costs, then boned my elf.

Then came a sports mad jock called Channel Seven who only wanted to talk about sport, be in the Olympics one day and to be first at everything. He was very popular with the girls and had stolen his new girlfriends, Kath and Kim, from his friend ABC. I tried offering him a surf board, but he said beaches were dangerous, so I asked if he wanted a holiday overseas, but he reckoned airports were full of treacherous foreigners. All he wanted was a football, which I said was okay, but he'd have to share it with his friend, Channel 10.

Next on my knee was loud, olive skinned boy with black curly hair called SBS. I couldn't understand a word he was saying, but I gathered he wanted a naked woman, a really smart Alsatian and one round ball. I told him to be sure he wanted only one round ball, as he might want kids later in life.

The final child to sit on my knee deeply disturbed me. She was a shy little girl hiding behind her mother's skirt. She was called ABC and had been abused by her father. She told me she wasn't allowed to say anything or her Dad would punish her. She also told me that she had got into big trouble with her Dad for speaking up and dobbing, so he cut her pocket money and now she couldn't afford to do anything, either. I took pity on the poor waif and told her maybe for Christmas I would bring her a new Dad. She cried and so did I.

This story first appeared in Big Issue

3 December 2007

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