No stranger to the P45 by Dan W.Griffin (reading diary .TXT) 📖

doorway stood a man about double the size of Me. He too wore a beard, and with it the broadest of smiles and a woollen jumper with a picture of a reindeer on the front. ‘Merry Christmas!’ he said back. I don’t suppose that there was much more he could have said.
Clearly having immediately recognised me as someone legitimately masquerading as the fat, bearded chap in the red smock (whose presence was not too surprising given the day) the man invited me inside and straightaway offered me a drink. Before I’d had even a second to realise that it would be rude to decline such a thing, despite it being eight in the morning and not the most appropriate time for Scotch, he’d gently pushed me through into the living room and disappeared somewhere else. A sweet smell of honey, of chocolate and of pine, together with that of the fresh toast, then wafted up my nose as I stepped forward through the door.
The living room was about the size of another one. There was a tree standing tall in one corner dripping with colours of green and gold and red and blue. Festive cards from long-ago-seen family and friends adorned almost every sill while candles flickered on a table and a cat looked dead.
A couple of grandparents - or so I presumed - rose from armchairs to greet me with mock surprise as Mrs ‘Mum’ entered from another room and did the same. On the floor, next to the tree a vast pile of multi-coloured shredded paper shifted seemingly of its own accord. A second later and a child of about six emerged clutching a yellow plastic digger. The child made a noise that didn’t make any sense (to me), and this was followed by an eyes-n’-teeth exchange between his mother and he. One of the grandparents made an ‘oogling’ sound. And this didn’t make any sense to me, either.
I took control, quickly guessing (correctly) that I was being introduced and I took this as my cue to present the child with his gift. For a moment the child looked at me in astonished bewilderment. He shyly bit his lip before realising that it was then his turn to perform. He immediately hid behind his mother’s knees, poking his head around as if playing hide and seek - either that or he was protecting himself just in case I happened to explode. I’m sure that this would have surprised everyone.
To the accompaniment of a little more ‘oogling’ Child was gently ushered towards me to receive his gift. Taking the parcel in both hands, with a nervous smile he mumbled something sounding a little like ‘Thank you’ and then dived back into the pile of shredded paper, a second later shrieking with ear-piercing delight.
At this point I was getting the impression that I was actually doing exactly what I was supposed to. This was confirmed when the father returned with the drinks and handed me a tumbler half-filled with whisky. We clinked glasses in a toast to each others’ elf, and with some idiotic crack about Rudolph’s impatience to bury his nose into a bag of carrots (and having a lot of presents still to deliver before he could do so) I left as a thin mist of nonsense began to cast doubt on my sobriety. With a wave I walked carefully back to the car.
Steve and I arrived at the second house a few minutes later and once again I retrieved the correct gift from the back seat. A little more cautiously I walked to the front door and knocked and within moments of my ‘Ho, ho, ho, Mer-ry Christmas’ I was presenting a delighted child with a gift and then toasting the family’s good elf with a tumbler half-filled with whisky. Once again, with job done I waved my farewells. This time my walk back to the car was more than a little close to a stumble. My vision was clear, only it took my head a good moment to realise that.
Arriving at the next house I retrieved the gift and again made my way to the front door. As family members performed various indecipherable ‘oogling’ noises and exchanged expressions all eyes-n’-teeth, we again toasted each other’s elf and shortly thereafter I was snaking my way back towards the car, bleary-eyed, and trying not to be sick.
The walk from car to door at house number four took considerably longer than all of the others so far. I knocked with a one-eyed squint and blew a couple of bubbles as I hiccoughed my way through my ‘Ho, ho, ho, Mer-ry Chrishtmash!’ As I presented the child with its gift this time the father handed me a glass of sherry. I was still feeling confident that my impersonation of Jolly Old Saint Nick was not altogether atrocious and so, unwilling to let myself down (see Book) I again accepted the family’s hospitality and slugged the sherry back, soon bidding my farewells and zigzagging away to the car.
Things continued in this vain for the next couple of houses, the penultimate visit resulting in my final glass of ‘whishky’ and my drinking a toast to the family’s ‘shelf’. As I once again zigzagged away down the path I thought it highly amusing that from then on I was going to address Steve as something else. I wished ‘Mer-ry Chrishtmash!’ to a gnome and half-somersaulted over a small pivot hedge. ‘Giddy-up, Rudolph!’ I said as I reached the car laughing almost-hysterically. ‘Carrot?’
Steve looked across at me, his eyebrows raised. ‘You okay?’ he asked.
All things considered, I probably wasn’t (see Book, again).
I’m not proud of it (see Book, once more) but I have to admit that it was probably on Rudolph’s advice that the next house was my final visit that Christmas morning. Unfortunately, this advice came a little late: as I performed a Starsky and Hutch-style vault over the bonnet of the car and yelled, ‘Go, go, go!’ having sobered-up rather quickly. I’d clearly handled the situation very badly indeed (see Book, yet again).
Bleary-eyed and in a bit of a mess I’d knocked on the door and been invited into the house. This time there were no grandparents, no siblings and no mother. The father had offered me a drink and soon after disappearing into another room I heard the phone ring. Child and I were left staring at each other. I had little idea of what next to do.
Child was about seven. He looked at me somewhat suspiciously and after an awkward second or two said, ‘You’re not Father Christmas!’
‘?’ I thought.
I hadn’t been faced with this challenge before. Here was a kid questioning my professionalism; casting doubt upon my well-meaning masquerade. As it was, the youth centre had given no training at all prior to sending us out and about and I therefore had no idea of an appropriate response. I quickly thought on my feet and determined that I should remain in character. I figured that I should keep up the charade lest I became instrumental in the destruction of the child’s festive delusion. ‘Yesh, I am [hic.]’ I said, thinking that it would do. It didn’t.
Child raised his eyebrows far higher than Rudolph had earlier in the car. ‘No, you’re not!’ he said and turned his back. I was beginning to find him rather irritating.
‘I am Father Chrishtmash’ I responded. ‘Look, I’ve got a beard! And I come with preshensh!’
Child spun around. He looked angry and squawked ‘You’re not Father Christmas! Go away!’ He then kicked me in the shin.
Like I said, I’m not proud of it and I should’ve known better but Child had annoyed me and booted me in the leg. Of course, in hindsight I could’ve handled things far more maturely than I actually did but with my irritation apparent I leaned in towards him and in a voice not too far away from a whisper I told him, ‘Lishten kid, Shanta’s not real. He’sh jusht made-up.’
Child’s lip began to tremble and in a second his eyes welled with tears and shock. ‘WAAAHHH!’ he cried. And I immediately fled the house as fast as I could, hoping to be away long before his father returned lest in a fit of rage he battered me into oblivion with a bag of sprouts.


Psychopaths and a butterfly, and a nice cup of tea

It was something of a coincidence when a few years ago I was at a party in Bath and met the daughter of John and Anna Carter, founders of Carter’s Steam Fair in London where I once worked for a day and where my uncle ran candyfloss stalls laundering cash generated by his narcotics operations. Another coincidence, albeit entirely separate and connected in no way whatsoever to this, is that I have lived in both St Andrews in Bristol and St Andrews in Scotland.
And so, anyway...
Soon after my A-Levels I found myself being rather bored. I was living close enough to Frome for this to be sufficient a reason, and I had a year to kill prior to departing for university to become even more bored than ever before, particularly throughout the two-hour stratigraphy lectures at 9am on Monday mornings. I decided to move to Bristol and pass the year with a job or two, hopefully raising some cash to take to said university and squander on booze and stuff. I took a room in the house my mother shared with her partner, Mark. My sister stayed there too for a bit. I was nineteen years old.
Living in Bristol was my first ever experience of life as a city-dweller. I’d visited the place many a time before, and Bath too, but it was the first time I’d lived in a place so vast and full of concrete and fly posters and dirt. Sure, it wouldn’t be the last time I’d ever live in such a place, but it was certainly the first. It was an interesting experience; one that would become rather more memorable as a consequence of attracting the unwelcome attentions of a psychopath. Actually, come to think of it, I’m really not altogether sure whether there ever is a welcoming occasion for that. We lived in North Road in St Andrews (the Bristol one), an area of the city some way ‘up’ the Gloucester Road and off to the right.
If you don’t already know, Gloucester Road is a part of the city that some may describe as ‘artisan’ while others’ as somewhat ‘bohemian’. I tend to stick with the simplicity of ‘grotty’.