Bad Santa

I’m fine. Just wanted to get that in there because I know some of you read this and worry about me. One day of low mood does not depression make, that’s important to be aware of if you’re looking out for it. I can be low until Boxing Day and you needn’t worry at all, except about being given a miserable time.

I have had a bit of a ‘face on me’ today (as they say in the Midlands, not sure if anyone does elsewhere). I paid my last visit to the supermarket, to find denuded shelves with some poor quality looking cold meats, a limited choice of bread, and no fresh raspberries. This should surely be enough to give any forty-something female a dour aspect. I had also left my lovely shopping bags at home and had to revert to plastic.

I was grumpy, and I was packing the last of the bread (Warburton’s Farmhouse since you ask, it wouldn’t have been my first choice as I prefer Kingsmill) into the third carrier bag. The cashier had been super–nifty, and that was fine, I’d gone at my own pace. There was a voice ‘Do you mind hurrying it up love? We’ve all got places to go.’ At first, I thought it might have been my inner voice speaking, but this was unlikely because when I talk to myself I’m female and this voice was the deep timber of middle aged white male. Also, although I’m partial to calling myself ‘stupid bitch’ I would never patronise myself ‘love’. The voice was low, so that I couldn’t work out if it was someone close to me speaking just over his breath, or someone further away speaking loud enough for me to overhear. Was the admonishment directed at me?

I fumbled with change, playing for time and looking about. At the other till was a young man with children. I could hear his voice, strong Coventry accent, good humoured with his little girls. It didn’t feel like it was him. Santa was standing beside me. Not exactly Santa; a barrel chested man, red cashmere cardigan, light chinos, good haircut managing the male pattern baldness. The kind of man you see more in the south-east, broadcasting his expectation of possessing the finer things in life and his confidence that he can have them, the sort of man who makes tax-deductable donations to children’s charities and masturbates to the Opera Babes. He belonged in Waitrose and was slumming it in Sainsburys. We locked eyes.

It was likely to have been him, yet I wasn’t sure enough to make a challenge. I had what I wanted to say on the tip of my tongue, but he didn’t say anything more, and with the second glance seemed to be asking what my problem was, so I got on and paid. We crossed paths again in the carpark, he was loading his bag into his 4x4, more humble since he didn’t have a coat. I caught his glance and knew beyond all doubt that I had been verbally assaulted in a very minor way by Santa.

High on l’espirit d’escalier I mumbled all of the things it was just as well I didn’t say. I understand that it is frowned upon for student nurses to call Santa a ****ing c*** who should go **** his ***** and **** his *** which he probably wouldn’t be able to manage because of his **** *****. Especially at Christmas time. More especially on the day that the student nurse received a letter from Coventry University ending ‘..I hope that other students will learn from your excellent example. Well done!’.

I just went home, filled with the spirit of Christmas, and ate After Eights.