Carol’s Column

The rise and fall of a Jewish Santa

I nearly died of fright last week. It happened like this:

I was on my way to the bathroom when I bumped into Father Christmas.

A rotund figure with fur-lined cap and a great white beard, he smiled engagingly and said merrily: “Ho, ho, ho.”

My hearing aid fell out and I almost swallowed my false teeth with shock.

“Aren’t you a little early?” I replied when I’d adjusted my bionic aids.

He swept me off my feet. I was horrified. I could see the headlines in the paper: “Mother of four ravished by Father Christmas.”

“Hi, Ma,” he said when he’d replaced me.

Ma?

“I think you’ve made a mistake,” I said tactfully. “I have four children but none is Father Christmas. Perhaps you should visit the Halls or Le Rouxs next door.”

“Ma, don’t you recognise me?” said Father Christmas, wiggling his left eyebrow.

I peered through my contact lenses. No. This was definitely not one of mine.

“Ma, it’s Jamie,” he said.

“Jamie?”

“Yes, I’ve got a new job as Father Christmas.”

“But you’re Jewish,” I said.

“So, it’s fashionable; lots of people are Jewish these days,” he replied. “Anyway, who says Father Christmas wasn’t Jewish? Think about it.”

It was too early to think, besides, I still had to rinse my contact lenses.

“Come and have some chicken soup,” I murmured. “You can’t be Father Christmas on an empty stomach.”

It transpired that my youngest unmarried son had landed the plum job of chief Father Christmas at a large department store. He was heading a team of 10 Father Christmases, eight Christmas fairies and one clown who were dispatched throughout the store to spread joy and goodwill.

When not Father Christmasing, Jamie and his cohorts performed the Nativity Play.

“I’m Angel Gabriel,” he confided.

His first day went without a hitch, but on the second there were problems.

“My halo fell off,” he said despondently.

There was worse to come.

“Jesus rolled under the piano when the third Wise King tripped over the crib and a little girl grabbed him. She screamed so loudly when Joseph asked her to give him back that her mother accused him of cruelty and punched Joseph on the nose.”

However, Jamie sailed through the next few days. Oh, there were minor problems, such as when one small boy set fire to his beard while another wet him while sitting on his knee.

“Professional hazards,” he said, airily dismissing these setbacks with fortitude.

We were terribly proud of Jamie for, to be honest, he was the first Father Christmas in the family. As a surprise, we decided to visit him but unfortunately when we arrived, business wasn’t too good, so we thought we’d help out.

Jamie was not happy.

“Get off my knee,” he growled to his 24-year-old brother.

“I want a Ferrari for Christmas,” said Barry.

“If you don’t climb off immediately, I’ll sock you,” muttered Jamie with true Father Christmas spirit.

We stayed to watch the Nativity Play, which was extremely moving, although Jamie looked a little strange as Mary with a beard.

“I thought he was Angel Gabriel,” I whispered to my husband.

It seemed that Mary had had a late night and was feeling liverish, so Jamie took over at the last minute.

“Isn’t he a superb actress?” proclaimed my spouse. “He has a distinct Flora Robson touch.”

And then only this morning we received a call from the police station.

“We have a Father Christmas who says he’s related to you,” said a Constable de Jong.

It seems the store employees, distressed about not being recompensed for overtime, had mounted a short protest march around the block. The 10 Father Christmases, eight Christmas fairies and one clown had marched along with the other workers and been incarcerated for causing a public disturbance.

So who’s got problems? All my life I have wanted to be the mother of an imprisoned, protesting Jewish Father Christmas.

And a happy Christmas to you too.

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