Santa Claus or Stalker?

 

I'm afraid I have bad news for you. The jolly old chap in the red suit is a stalker. And I have evidence.

But first, some background.

Yes, it's that time of the year again. November. The cue for Christmas songs (and I differentiate 'songs' from 'carols' because they are not the same thing!) to be blaring from every shop you enter. It's the time of year when I have the most sympathy for shop assistants; at least I get to leave the shop. They are required to stay and endure the sort of torture that is probably being used to prise secrets from captured agents in foreign lands. 'Tell us the code, or we'll play Mariah Carey again singing "All I want for Christmas is yooooooooou" '.

Just in case you think I don't enjoy the spirit of Christmas, I will provide some photographic evidence. Here I am around Christmas 1959, snuggled up to my big sister in a cane saucer chair that became 'so last year' and is now firmly back in fashion. Note the blackboard on the left. A prediction that we would both become teachers? Note also the spangly live Christmas tree, which was eventually planted in the yard and became an enormous thing which dropped long spiky leaves which had us picking prickles out of our bare feet every year. Witness the happy faces on the children as we clutch our Christmas booty!
 

Fast forward to 1994, and the one of the next generation is beaming as she, too, has unwrapped her loot and is clearly pleased with the haul. Note the open fireplace!!!!!

Now, many of you would know that I am a retired English teacher, and old habits die hard. Today I was in Target, and as I strolled the aisles I listened more carefully than usual to the lyrics of 'Santa Claus is Coming to Town'. I have to say I was shocked. Here is the evidence I offer in support of my earlier statement about Stalker Santa:

1. He sees you when you're sleeping
2. He knows when you're awake
3. He keeps lists, and he checks them. A lot.
4. He enlists the help of Elf on a Shelf to be his eyes and ears in the house in the lead up to Christmas (and I have to confess that I only learned that this was his function recently). Don't be fooled, people! That cute looking little red fella is a spy! Look at those eyes! I bet they follow you around the room. He reports back to Santa about all of your movements.

So, in essence, this is not Father Christmas. This is Orwell's Big Brother! We are being watched, all the time. We are being brainwashed when we go shopping by the endless songs. They even play 'I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas' in the melting heat of an Australian summer. Dream on, I say, it aint gonna happen. It's thought control!

Of course, some of this is tongue in cheek. Personally, I'm just happy that the awful Daiso Halloween window display- a child size mannequin with a bloody axe embedded in its head- is gone, replaced by spangles and inflatable Santas. I love the spirit of Christmas: watching 'A Muppet Christmas Carol' for the umpteenth time; singing along to the beautiful 'Silent Night', composed on a guitar one snowy night in Salzburg in 1818; being together with my family; putting out my precious Nativity set in the wooden stable made for me by my darling Dad, who we raise a glass to each Christmas.

The memory of our first Christmas with Sarah, less than four weeks old. 'When A Child is Born' never had more meaning, and each year I'm reminded of the child born over 2,000 years ago in Bethlehem. The one who grew up to speak of being kind, and loving one another.

I don't want to sound like Scrooge, and say 'Bah, humbug!' to Christmas. I actually love it. But consider yourselves warned.

You might just be being stalked by a fat guy in a red suit.