Mrs Claus


(Richard Elzey [CC / Flickr])

“If there was any justice, there really would be a Santa Claus so he could give you the lump of coal you deserve,” said Mary.

“My dear,” said Henry,” I am seventy-three years old. I have been married to you for forty-five of those years so you know better than most that I am far better suited to impersonating Santa Claus than to hanging out a stocking for him.”

“I know that, I was there too. That’s not a reason to actually do it. What on earth were you thinking? You can’t say no to anyone.” Mary frowned. “Especially that Marjorie.”

“That Marjorie, as you so gallantly put it, has nothing to do with this. Someone has to do it. Otherwise the children will be disappointed. Worse, they will be disillusioned. They will sink so deep into existential despair that they will not spend every waking hour between now and the twenty-fifth plaguing their parents to bankrupt themselves. George Osborne needs me, my dear, and he shall not find me wanting.”

“Oh, George Osborne can…can go to where we all know he belongs. We were supposed to be visiting my sister that day.”

“We were? It must have slipped my mind. You know me, my dear. Grey of head and rusty of memory.”

“Yes, I know you. I’ve known you for centuries. Yes, yes I know it’s only forty-five years, but that’s long enough for centuries of knowing you.”

“I shall not dispute the relativity of marital acquaintance.”

“Oh, give it a rest.”

“Duty calls, my dear, and I must don the red coat of retail.”

“Well don’t come running to me when you end up on the paedophile register.”


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Posted in Saturday Hooptedoodle

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