Creepy old Santa

The whole concept of Santa is kinda creepy, don’t you think?

Some old fella, his face disguised, enticing young children to sit on his lap in return for toys.

You spend half the time telling your kids about stranger danger, then the other half forcing them, kicking and screaming, onto mysterious men’s laps come Christmas.

Yet page 27 clause 4.6 of the parenting contract states that the applicant shall, between the dates of December 1 and 25, facilitate face-to-face contact with that nutter from the North Pole.

Because I like making things difficult for myself, I chose to travel to the other side of the city for this year’s visit.

During peak hour. With a hangover.

Why I was ever given a parenting licence in the first place is beyond me.

After an hour of bumper-to-bumper traffic and two repeats of the SpongeBob SquarePants C.D. I began to wish that I, too, lived in a pineapple under the sea.

That way I wouldn’t have to cope with Sydney’s third-world traffic congestion.

Perhaps Nathan Rees could ask Santa for a transport plan. Or any plan, for that matter.

Stuck in the Harbour Tunnel, I glanced down at the dashboard to discover that I would run out of fuel in approximately 3 kms.

My mother always said I was out of the room when God handed out common sense.

True to form, I took the first exit, winding up lost in the back streets of Paddington, where there are no service stations.

Plenty of lattes. Several baguettes. Some very fine cheese. But nothing that I could put in my fuel tank.

The number of kms remaining clicked over to ‘0’ and I started to panic.

First, I blamed the children. So much for the spirit of Christmas.

“If you kids weren’t distracting me, this never would have happened,” I said sternly, as tears rolled down their tiny faces.

Cue the Miracle on 34^th Street (or was it Oxford St?)

I managed to keep driving for another 15 minutes, on empty, until a mirage shimmered on the horizon: a dirty big BP sign.

Suddenly, it became a brand new day.

If you haven’t been to Westfield Bondi Junction, it’s like shopping at the Hyatt: gleaming marble aisles decorated with sparkling reindeers performing the grande jete.

In the distance, a sight for sore eyes – Saint Nick in a silver sleigh.

The kids stared, open-mouthed with delight.

Even cranky old mum cracked a smile.

In previous years, Taj and Grace had screamed blue murder when placed on the bearded wonder’s lap.

But not this year.

The first shot was a winner, answering the question of what-to-get-grandad for Christmas.

Had the photo been taken half an hour earlier, it would have been an entirely different story.

Taj asked Santa for another Ben 10 watch.

Delicate, feminine Grace decided on a skateboard.

And mum got everything she wanted: two happy kids, a tank full of petrol, and a year’s respite before the next too-close encounter with Father Christmas.