Carol’s Column

Christmas comes but once a year — just as well, my feet can't take the strain

THE Christmas season started with a bang.

Literally.

It happened like this. I had just manoeuvred my crimson chariot into a vacant parking place in Oxford Road and was idly contemplating the gay and festive decorations all around, when I was jerked into awareness.

By a yellow mini. Who hit me hard in the rear.

I looked back in time to see a bright yellow flash shoot backwards, fast, and crunch the car in the rear.

Then, with a great and screeching meshing of gears the yellow peril jerked forward, and once again smacked into my rear fender with a thunderous thump.

I'd just replaced my lower teeth which had shot out with the force of the impact, when I heard a tapping on the window, accompanied by a chirpy voice wishing me a happy Christmas.

I looked up to see the driver of the yellow mini.

Good heavens — it was Father Christmas.

"I hope I didn't give you a fright," he said charmingly. "I've never been able to get the hang of this reverse parking.

"Well, my dear, I can't stand here chatting all day — must go and do my bit. Toodle-loo."

And with a dazzling smile, he disappeared into the nearest shopping emporium.

I checked my back bumper — nothing serious, just a minor dent on the right-hand-side. Ah well, A little Christmas spirit goes a long way. I wasn't even cross.

Rosebank glittered and sparkled with Christmas cheer. The stores looked beautiful. Not that I saw so much of them as I crawled about at knee level.

It was the only way I could get through the crowds.

Good heavens, where did all these people come from?

Everyone was busy, busy, busy and there was chaos everywhere.

I lost my turkey stuffing in the underwear department. It had slipped between the outsize and extra outsize where I found it nestling in a D-cup of gargantuan size.

Children giggled, mothers fussed, cash registers tinkled and I caught my shoe in a crack in the floor from where it refused to move.

A Christmas tree collapsed, as did one Father Christmas who was later found to be suffering from an excess of red wine.

Three hours later, worn out, weary with sore feet and bruised shoulders, laden with parcels, I emerged from the store and climbed into my car.

When suddenly, there was a loud bang.

I turned around. There, smiling happily, was Father Christmas in his yellow mini.

He shot backwards, then forwards, giving me one final bash as he finally extricated himself from the parking place.

"Merry Christmas!" he yelled.

Who said?

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