Ho, Ho, Bloody Ho
On Sunday middle-child becomes a gym nazi and forces my wife and I to undertake a workout in the pool and on various forms of torture apparatus that in more peaceful times exist as stools – push-ups on a stool, tricep dips…Please, can I go back into the pool? NO!. I erroneously told her of Army PTIs saying do 20 then at 20 saying ‘one for the Queen, ‘one for the regiment’ etc. I was praying we didn’t get down to ‘one for Private Smith”, the Hygiene orderly.
Whilst recovering, old mate O’Reilly phones and through some convoluted conversation, bad reception and the fact that I was suffering the after effects of middle-child administered torture, I ended up volunteering to be Santa to a bunch of Pre-schoolers.
Which explains why I turn up at the Pre-School behind St Mathias at Zillmere on Monday morning dressed like a Coca Cola ad
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The teacher said I did great but let’s face it; playing Santa to a bunch of 5 year-olds doesn’t take much talent. Not a lot of critics there
Their utter belief in what I represented took me back to the farm at Pemberton, West Australia where as a young tacker, maybe five myself, I took a walk with my dog Honey through the bush near the farm house. Honey was named for her colour so you can guess the colour of one of her pups we kept and called “Treacle”.
After some time I’m confronted with an apparition of red and white standing in front of me. I was beside myself – Santa had personally come to this small farm in WA to speak to ME and ME only. Not my rotten girly, smartypants and older sisters, but ME.
I took advantage of the situation and plugged for a pedal car and without a touch or irony said I had been a good boy. Santa must already known this otherwise he wouldn’t have taken the time out to visit ME. I would’ve thought though; If Santa talks to Mum or Dad I’m dead but hey, go for the big lie!
What a coupe for a five year-old.
Somewhere there is a picture with me in a pedal car so my lies weren’t detected but the biggest thrill was Santa sounded just like my Mum. True! The bragging rights at school were undeniable – all other kids were impressed that Santa come to see ME and also sounded like my Mother.
This likeness with my Mother was proven at the Town Xmas party in the School Hall that very week when Santa appeared, this time for all the plebs, and sounded just like Mum.
My friends were convinced.
How long this lasted I can’t remember but I feel, when the truth dawned on me; as it does all kids at some time; my crash and burn was louder and hurt more than what other kids suffered. My loss of faith involved my Mum who scammed the hell out of a five year-old naive boy.
The pedal car was cool though, and I eventually forgave my Mum.
I had to, every time it comes up she rolls around laughing as do my smartypants sisters.
What’s your Christmas story?
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The teacher said I did great but let’s face it; playing Santa to a bunch of 5 year-olds doesn’t take much talent. Not a lot of critics there
Their utter belief in what I represented took me back to the farm at Pemberton, West Australia where as a young tacker, maybe five myself, I took a walk with my dog Honey through the bush near the farm house. Honey was named for her colour so you can guess the colour of one of her pups we kept and called “Treacle”.
After some time I’m confronted with an apparition of red and white standing in front of me. I was beside myself – Santa had personally come to this small farm in WA to speak to ME and ME only. Not my rotten girly, smartypants and older sisters, but ME.
I took advantage of the situation and plugged for a pedal car and without a touch or irony said I had been a good boy. Santa must already known this otherwise he wouldn’t have taken the time out to visit ME. I would’ve thought though; If Santa talks to Mum or Dad I’m dead but hey, go for the big lie!
What a coupe for a five year-old.
Somewhere there is a picture with me in a pedal car so my lies weren’t detected but the biggest thrill was Santa sounded just like my Mum. True! The bragging rights at school were undeniable – all other kids were impressed that Santa come to see ME and also sounded like my Mother.
This likeness with my Mother was proven at the Town Xmas party in the School Hall that very week when Santa appeared, this time for all the plebs, and sounded just like Mum.
My friends were convinced.
How long this lasted I can’t remember but I feel, when the truth dawned on me; as it does all kids at some time; my crash and burn was louder and hurt more than what other kids suffered. My loss of faith involved my Mum who scammed the hell out of a five year-old naive boy.
The pedal car was cool though, and I eventually forgave my Mum.
I had to, every time it comes up she rolls around laughing as do my smartypants sisters.
What’s your Christmas story?
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I knew it
I knew it
You were Santa Claus!!!!
No! You know the deal if you start a lie you have to stick with it – Santa’s real – just ask those kids
You realize now Kevvie you will have to perform this duty with your grandchildren in the years to come!!!!!! Well done! I just love Christmas.
You did well , love from ‘me’
Kev
“What’s your Christmas story?”
This could be loosely called a Christmas story – or it could be filed under “Stories my father told me”. It also pertinent given we’ve just had an election. It’s entirely true. I was about nine or ten at the time.
Anyway…. back in the late fifties, my father was principal of the then two-teacher school in Carmila, central Queensland. (My mother was the assistant teacher). As such, dad was the polling clerk whenever there was an election, as the school was the local polling booth.
Just before Christmas one year, there was a Federal election. As people came in to vote, they would say first their surname, then the Christian name, and be crossed of the roll before taking the ballot paper. My dad was doing this part of the process when a middle aged woman, whom my father didn’t know, came in to vote.
“Name please,” said dad.
“Maher,” replied the voter.
“Christian names?” asked dad.
“Mary Christmas,” responded the woman.
“Oh, and a happy New Year to you and your family”, replied dad, a trifle confused, “but I need your name to find it on the roll”.
“Are you a bit deaf, it’s Mary Christmas,” she answered.
The penny dropped, and dad located her name and crossed it off on the roll. It was indeed “Mary Christmas Maher”.
Apparently she had been born on 25th December, and her parents thought the name was entirely fitting.
Cute, Kev. Real cute.
You’re such a softie!
My mother says in our family “He who believes, receives.”
I believe, I believe!