So, let me make sure I understand this correctly: in a matter of days, a rather rotund man, sporting a growth of chin-fuzz that would embarrass Brian Blessed’s meagre offering and a uni-colour, Coca-Cola-promoting onesie of some description is going to navigate his way down our chimney (well, he can try, we live in a flat on the bottom floor of a four-storey block – that’s one heck of a navigation route...) and deposit a kindly offering to fulfil my heart’s desire – just because?!.
Belting!! Now, the only minor issue that I might face is over the whole “he knows if you’ve been bad or good...” part. I don’t consider myself to be a malicious little oik or anything like that, but I’ve secreted away my fair share of crayons from NuNu’s, as well as the odd intentionally-disruptive nappy fill (he he he, my babysitting-cousin’s apparent ‘good friend’ certainly made swift his departure that evening, thus ending any cosy encounters!), and kicking off socks as quickly as they had been put on.
So, my question really is, how many of the Seven Deadly Sins is it ok to have circumvented before the ol’ Père Noël limit is (b)reached? And, more pertinently, what can I do over the course of the next few days in recompense?
Fear is a fabulous motivator (I’m far more a ‘stick’ bum-shuffler than ‘carrot’). And so, recently, I’ve been making every effort to placate said Father Christmas:
*I happily shared my teething ring with Faux Paws (our cat, for those who’ve forgotten) much to the apparent distaste of mum;
*I generously donated one of my fake Gucci mittens to the Big Issue lady next to Sainsbury’s (she didn’t give me a copy though – no Christmas spirit!); and
*I didn’t say a word when the nursery bully had me gargling sand and sticklebricks.
And now I’m panicking – I’m not sure quite what more I can do, or whether I’ve redressed the balance – how does one keep score?
I’ve had my entire being set on getting a blue Teksta Robot Pup and a Furby Boom for a good two weeks (sorry, short attention span...), but now fear that all such hopes may be dashed with a single updraft of Rudolph’s beaconed nasal passages, rendering me more dejected than Tiny Tim in an especially sad portrayal of an EastEnders festive special, with Radiohead playing in the background!
All I know is that, come Xmas morn, if the stocking at the foot of my bed (it’s one of ma’s laddered Falke pure matt 100 denier cast-offs, since you ask – giving her more a Nora Batty look than one of Jessica Alba from my perspective) is not filled, then woe betide jolly old St Nick twelve months down the line; I can be a dead-shot with a catapult, as my dismembered Mr Potato Head would wilfully attest...
Column by the Baby Harborian.
Follow the Baby Harborian on Twitter, @BabyHarborian.