Winter Wonderland

Dear Chroniclers,

should you ever be invited by an attractive blonde neighbour to partake in dressing-up games, have no truck with it. It will be the very undoing of you, as I discovered to my cost this weekend just gone.

Teenygoth refuses to speak and, even now, mrs electrofried giggles manically every time she deigns to glance in my general direction. Oh, and we're still picking red fluff from our bedroom carpet.

A favour called

Sally the Flash lives just down the road from the electrofried estate. A professional photographer of no mean repute, she has on occasion helped yours truly extend his somewhat basic knowledge of the old Box Brownie and emulsioned glassy plates - for which I am deeply indebted.

Last Thursday night Fetlock opened the door to the Baronial Hall and in she marched clutching a designer-label carrier bag. The favour was about to be called. I should have spotted the danger-signs as soon as I saw the fur-trimmed sleeve dangling from the top, but no, I fell for it hook, line and sinker.

"Fancy dressing-up?"

How could I possibly resist?

The sordid truth

It didn't take long to regret my hasty decision.

I could sense the temperature drop several degrees in the TV Room as I broke the news of my imminent starring role in the Annual Christmas Fete at "Flatcaps", the local academic institutionary of choice to the well-heeled of Little Wittering.

Mrs electrofried appeared somewhat bemused,

"Santa, you're playing ... Santa?"

As for teenygoth she was, as might be expected, brutally dismissive,

"Well, at least you've got the figure for it, Dad!!!!!!!!!!!!!! "

Suitably discouraged, I made off toward my study as the horrible reality of the situation dawned.

The well-dressed man

Just one day later I was to be found up in the Master Bedroom getting ready for my star appearance.

It must be obvious to costume-designers the world over that Santas come in all different shapes and sizes. And the one who had occupied the Santa suit immediately before I, was clearly very different.

Tugging on the loose fitting velour trousers I soon established the waist was approximately twice the length of the trouser-leg. I tried to picture the previous encumbant in situ and alarming images of a strange jabba-like creature came all too readily to mind. Undeterred, for the electrofrieds are nothing if not resourceful, I reached for a pair of blackened Army boots that had last seen service in the relief of Mafeking, desperately hoping they would go some way toward bridging the substantial gap betwixt sock top and trouser-leg bottom.

Worse was to come. Closer inspection revealed the drawstring at the top of the trousers had perished, leaving no visible means of support. The only solution was to tuck the surplus material into the waistband of my empire-line pants and hope for the best.

Fortunately the Santa jacket proved more accomodating and was soon fastened firmly in place with a piece of loose webbing purloined from Cook's extensive collection of XXXL sized corsetry. The beard duly donned and a Santa hat perched jauntily on my head I made my way down the front steps of the House to where my carriage awaited.

Park and Ride

Sally the Flash, fearing justifiably that I might flee the country, had stationed her husband by the gates. There was to be no escape. He ushered me into his charabanc and off we sped toward "Flatcaps".

Disappointingly, there was no welcoming party to greet us. Indeed, so popular is the event in Little Wittering we had to park up some little distance from the school entrance and walk the remainder of the way. The one plus was that this gave me ample opportunity to practice my hearty Santa laugh on bemused members of the public we encountered during the last leg of our journey to the school.

Suitably disguised, I was even able to greet a member of teenygoth's ASBO'n'soft-drinks Youth Group with a cheery "Ho, ho, ho!" without being recognised. Under questioning later that weekend he did confess to mrs electrofried he had chanced upon a drunken lout dressed as Santa, but had wisely declined to pay him any attention.

Sleigh Bells ringing

If the Santa suit had been challenging, his sleigh defied description. It was there awaiting my arrival, a loosely constructed jalopy of a thing fashioned on the framework of a trailer that had clearly failed all MOT tests south of Lapland.

Santa's four elves were of equally unpromising material. Chosen at short notice by Sally the Flash, largely on the basis of availability rather than suitability, they were positioned at each corner of the trailer ready to take the strain when Santa should choose to mount the perilous steps to his parcel-decorated station. The back-axle pairing were of particular note.

Offside elf was a giant of a man, his diminutive counterpart on the driver's side being an elf of considerably lesser stature. I suspected strongly this was not to be a "magic-carpet" ride to Santa's grotto and this did indeed prove to be the case. One carelessly manouvered corner on the way in almost saw Santa catapaulted into the waiting crowd of expectant children like some bizarre red-tinted human cannon-ball. The potential kiddy carnage did not bear thinking about.

Santa's Arrival

Despite inital concerns. we arrived at length to the cheery cries of young children, accompanied by Santa's muffled entreaties to the now infamous back-axled elves not to lose their footing in the rain-sodden artificial snow. The sleigh duly ground to a halt, the safety of Santa's Grotto just a tempting few yards away. But first came the dismount.

Several of the more enthusiastic youngsters surrounded the sleigh as I began a backward descent, my Mafeking Army boots desperately seeking a grip in the footholds cut into the side. So keen were my audience to meet the star of the show they began tugging on my loosely fastened velour trousers. Suddenly my life flashed before me as I pictured said garment breaking free from the restraining grip of my pants to reveal Santa in all his glory. The front pages of the Little Wittering Post would be full of it come the morn.

Fortunately I managed to make a safe, if unsteady, exit from the sleigh to be ushered into the Grotto by Santa's two little helpers and a Bouncer carefully selected from the serried ranks of motherhood to guard the entrance from non-paying interlopers.

The dispensing of presents

I have to say it, but the next two hours passed relatively smoothly. A steady stream of small children were lead in at regular intervals, the little helpers practiced their "Ho, ho, ho's" and dispensed token presents with remarkable efficiency and the occasional blushing mother declined Santa's kind offer to sit on his knee.

All in all a good time was had by everyone concerned. The sole note of concern was the consumption of copious quantities of loose bri-nylon from a false beard that had evidently decided to commence its annual Spring moult under the heat of an adjacent gas-fire. Should I contract the Santa equivalent of asbestosis I shall call this web-page in evidence.

A Christmas surprise!

Had matters ended there, then the evening would have been pronounced a resounding success. But no, the allure of the spotlight had me in its grip and Sally's husband was called on to make one last journey.

He duly delivered Santa to the entrance of St Simeon's Church Centre wherein teenygoth's ASBO'n'soft-drinks Youth Group were gathered for Friday night chilling. What a fatal mistake to leap through the doors with a loud "Ho,ho, ho" having failed to check the fastening of the velour trousers.

There was no stopping either my momentum down the Church Centre stairs, nor the the escape of the velour from my empire-line pants. I arrived at the bottom with trousers round my ankles and a neat pair of Christmas-tree printed boxers on display.

"Oh Dad ... how could you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

The screams of teenygoth still ring loud in my ears as I do penance in the Tower, wrapping the last of the Yuletide goodies. Pray for my forgiveness as I wish you all a very happy and a very velour-free Christmas.

best regards

electrofried (mr)