4 days ago
16
It was Christmas Eve, 1987. The cold war was beginning to emit its last frosty guffs, Thatcher had set her sights on gay children, and Michael Fish was keeping his head down. In England’s deep south, my sister and I conspired in our bedroom. We are twins: she got the brains; I, being the eldest by a full six minutes, was to inherit the estates and titles, except there were none because my idealistic pinko parents had spent their working lives in public service.
Earlier in the year, my sister had attempted to prove the existence of God. Worried about the health of her pet rabbit, Wodger, she penned him a letter pleading for help, with a rather clever “Please tick if you have read this” box at the end.
It seemed foolproof – but it turns out God ain’t no fool. By morning, the entire letter had simply vanished. Despite the failure of her ruse, I felt inspired and decided on a target of my own: Father Christmas. I was to prove him real. Satisfied that my aim was catch-and-release only, not trophy hunting, my sister supported my plan.
Aged eight, I was the proud owner of a robust and battle-tested whoopee cushion. I intended to place it at the bottom of my stocking, which would be hung at the end of my bed (top bunk – privilege of the first born). I needn’t even try to stay awake, since the moment the first satsuma plunged to the bottom of the stocking, I’d be whoopeed conscious and ready to photograph Father Christmas, red-gloved. Proof of Santa. My camera of choice: a bright red Fisher-Price View-Master. It wasn’t technically a camera but it looked the part and enabled the operator to spool through pictures of the Taj Mahal, the Statue of Liberty and the BT Tower. I felt confident that Father Christmas’s image would magically find its way into one of these photographs – perhaps feeding a glazed carrot to Blitzen in the Butlin’s Top of the Tower revolving restaurant. I slept the sleep of the complacent.
When I awoke, however, it was not to the sound of a whoopee trump but a thunk and a word I had only ever heard once before, when my father sliced the top of his finger off fixing the lawnmower. Was Father Christmas secretly potty-mouthed? In the commotion, I’d completely forgotten that my sister and I had also devised a backup booby trap – a Teddy Ruxpin toy balanced atop our bedroom door, batteries included. I panicked that I had been caught not sleeping, in direct contravention of the Christmas contract. My courage gone, I forgot all about my Pulitzer prize-winning snap and buried my face in my pillow.
Worst case scenarios hurtled through my mind: if I was caught awake, would my place on the present list be nullified? And if so, would my sister share her new toys? I had only recently watched Raiders of the Lost Ark – if I saw something no mortal boy should see, would a stumbled-upon Father Christmas melt my face off?
Eyes still scrunched shut against my pillow, I heard a quiet rustling at the end of the bed – the unmistakable sound of satsuma against wool. I also detected a faint whiff of Hamlet cigars. Could it be that Father Christmas smoked the same brand as my father? If they had anything more in common I would have to assume that they … had been school contemporaries? I considered getting on Father Christmas’s case about the dangers of smoking but then figured the man works hard and this must be the most stressful night of the year, so I cut him some slack. Once I was sure he’d gone, I waited for five excruciating minutes and then hollered with all my might: “He’s been!”
I swung out of bed and, as my foot met the first step of the ladder, I felt and heard the whoopee cushion sing its sassy song. Not only had I failed to outsmart Father Christmas, he had turned the tables on me.
When I relayed this to my parents, my mother seemed disproportionately cross with Father Christmas, promising to give him an earful for leaving a whoopee cushion in such a high-risk location. I asked her not to bother. I was freaked out. My close encounter hadn’t been as triumphant as I had hoped, but it was still unsettling. As my sister fed Teddy Ruxpin a segment of satsuma, she wisely suggested that, from this point on, we no longer mess with the Other.
