Christmas Eve is no picnic for me, Mrs Claus, either

Hello there, Mrs Claus here. Or Green Claws as the kids in school used to call me when they caught me picking my nose. An elf had the cheek to call me that when I was putting a load of mistletoe up one year and I soon wiped the smile off of her face, the skinny little bitch. I don’t tolerate sluts in my household and she was one of the worst, always strutting about in those tight red legging of hers. Always giggling and stroking her thin ears and pronounced cheek bones around whenever a man was within earshot – let’s see what a month of barn duty with the reindeers does for her complexion. Dasher’s digestive system goes to hell if he isn’t given his medication in time.

This evening I have to make sure that Santa’s costume is kept warm on the radiator before he goes out. I swear he never listens to me and one day he will catch the death of cold if I am not there to make sure he is wrapped up tight. One year he went out with odd socks on! Can you imagine it he looked a right state. Good job that it was in the days before iPhones and Androids so there were no snotty little brats to take pictures of him. I tell you, it is divorce time if some clever dick catches him looking like a scruff and makes a George Bush video of an Iraqi throwing shoes at him.

I used to wait up for hubby each night, worried sick about what might happen to him as he flies over enemy territory such as Russia, Iran, and the South Pole. I tell you, those penguins down in Antarctica hate him for some reason and I don’t care how cute they look on TV. David Attenborough, typical man, thinks he knows it all on those BBC nature documentaries but the moment his back is turned, those waddling birds go back to plotting dastardly deeds against us.

He better not go anywhere near that Easter Bunny; I’ve seen the way she looks at him. Sometimes, I just wish he would crash into a wall and leave me in peace.

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