Dear Mr Claus,
Here we are again then. Another year nearly over and Christmas on the horizon. I hope it’s been a better year for you than it has for me. Mine has been totally uneventful and bland. I’ve been incredibly good; to the point where I could scream with boredom but it hasn’t stopped all those rumours about me.
Take last January. The snow billowed down for days on end, creating a knee-deep blanket of white over the garden. We built a beautiful snowman out there. Top hat, coal eyes, dad’s old scarf and walking stick. The neighbours said it was me who stuck the carrot in that rude place on the snowman. They said it really upset their innocent children and didn’t speak to me for weeks. But it wasn’t me Santa. It was my son. He’s at that age where he’s obsessed with certain body bits. You remember what puberty is like.
Then that Valentine incident in February. You know what a jealous man my hubby is. He accuses me of flirting with other men even if I glance at the vicar or talk to a double glazing salesman on the phone. So, when he received a mystery Valentine card it was a chance for me to be a bit of a green-eyed monster for a change. But everyone said I had set him up; that I sent the extra card myself to wind him up. As if I would? No, it wasn’t me Santa; it was my sister. She’s always been the practical joker, not me. Pure as the driven snow am I.
March soon came around. All those chocolate Easter eggs. Well, you know what they say about chocolate being a bit of an aphrodisiac? Everyone said it was me who ate them all and was later seen with that handsome bachelor across the road doing what bunnies do best. But it wasn’t me Santa; it was my cousin. We may look alike, but she’s the chocoholic, nymphomaniac of the family, not me.
Remember April Santa? What a fool I felt. I suppose you heard the tale about me enjoying a luxurious long soak in the bath when the telephone interrupted my fantasies. The story has it that it was one of those dirty phone calls and that I encouraged the caller by telling him what I was, or wasn’t, wearing when he asked. But honestly Santa, it wasn’t me. It was my mother-in-law. She was staying with us at the time and was a bit menopausal. Hormones all over the place.
I suppose you put a black mark against my name after the May episode too. A lovely spring day; the immaculately dressed dancers wound their ribbons around the Maypole as they moved in perfect unison. Suddenly a gust of wind whipped up the lady dancers’ skirts. The crowd gasped and the dancers’ ribbons ended up in an awful tangle. But believe me Santa; it wasn’t me who had no knickers on despite what people say. It was my daughter; you know how rebellious teenage girls can be.
June was a glorious month. Long, hot sultry days in the sun and evenings that seemed go on forever. Sitting outside until sunset drinking wine (lemonade for me of course), and not wanting to go to bed and miss out on the warmth. Someone said it was me who stayed up all night chatting to men on the internet; making suggestive remarks and telling raunchy jokes. Santa; I’m much too shy to do such a thing. It wasn’t me, it was my hubby. He always goes through a funny phase during the summer equinox.
That July vacation caused a few problems too. There was a lot of talk about me getting involved in a passionate holiday romance. Rumours of running naked along beaches, midnight skinny dipping in the sea and making love in the sand dunes spread all round the neighbourhood. But it wasn’t me Santa; it was my dog. All the puppies went to good homes I assure you and she’s been neutered now.
Our party in August caused a bit of a stir I know. It took us ages to convince the police to go away after it was reported there was a drunken, naked woman dancing on the lawn at four in the morning. Of course, everyone said it was me but I swear it wasn’t; it was my maiden aunt. She’d escaped again; gate crashed the party and forgotten to take her tablets.
The end of summer. September dawned and a new term began at the local school. Nasty reports that the young male teacher was found in a compromising position with me in the stockroom are totally untrue. I’d only gone into school to help the children with their embroidery. No, it wasn’t me, Santa; it was my sister-in-law. She’s the studious sort and will go to any lengths to advance her education.
Those Halloween incidents weren’t my fault either. That dark October evening when Mr Jones from down the road told everyone I gave him a treat like no other he’d ever had before. It’s a downright lie; he just likes muck spreading. And it wasn’t me who told those nice children dressed as witches where to get off when they knocked on our door. It was the parrot. We didn’t realise when we bought him that he knew every vulgar word in the dictionary, along with others that aren’t.
When November came around I thought I’d make an early start on my Christmas shopping. Well, honestly Santa, I didn’t know that shop named ‘Passion Fruits’ wasn’t a greengrocer’s store. It wasn’t until I got inside and saw all that strange lingerie that I realised. I felt too embarrassed to leave without buying anything. But that eight inch purple thing I purchased isn’t for me. I thought I’d give it my neighbour for Christmas. She’s never been the same with me since the snowman and naked dancer incidents and I thought it might lighten her up a bit. I only tested it four times to make sure the batteries worked, honestly.
So, here we are back in another December and I wonder what’s in store. Remember last Christmas Eve, Santa? Do you recall arriving in my hometown very late and rather inebriated from all that sherry? Can you picture the rather mature, buxom blonde wearing very little apart from a smile you found waiting for you when you dropped down our chimney? You certainly filled more than her stocking I can tell you. Well, that WAS me and if you don’t deliver all the goods I’ve asked for this year then Mrs Claus will get to know all about it.
I know you’ve been blackmailed before and threatened with incriminating photographs but I know you well enough to realise you could talk your way out of that. After all, almost everyone has a picture of themselves with Santa Claus and in these times of digital photography and technology it’s possible to create all sorts of false images. But I’m positive only your missus and I know about that cheeky little tattoo on your chubby left buttock, so you’d better watch out.
Love and Mince Pies. xxxxx
P.S. I hope you’ll drop by again this year. I’d love to show you the new stockings I bought at ‘Passion Fruits.’ And you should see where I put the mistletoe.