Today is the most exciting day of the year. I arose at 3:30am and crept downstairs to see if Father Christmas had visited my home. I heard a rummaging and shuffling from the Living Room and gingerly I opened the door. Beside the Christmas tree was a fat little man dressed in a red, fur-lined suit. He had a broad face and a little round belly that shook when he laughed like a bowl full of pork fat. Turning around from his night's work of plucking presents from his sack, the jolly old elf grinned at me, a pipe tightly clenched in his teeth. Winking, he then offered me a frosty glass bottle of Coca Cola.
"Are you Santa Claus?" I asked. The merry fellow laughed jollily and gave a quick nod of his head in reply.
"Then you must leave my Dundee home. Brits are traditionally visited by Father Christmas, a being with roots in Pagan tradition. You are derived from the Christian figure Saint Nicholas and visit the homes of Americans and others. You are quite different from Father Christmas. I think you must have taken a wrong turn in Albuquerque."
The fat figure chuckled and replied, "Nah mate, we've become conflated, like. I have to cover the UK too now - the kids talk about Santa these days and only a few oldies mention Father Christmas, so I've had to step in. It's a bugger."
"Well, do help yourself to some salt Santa, and kindly forgive my impertinence," I said.
"That I cannot do - you are now on my naughty list," said Santa. "No presents for you little boy."
With that, he gave a quick nod and up the chimney he rose. Pah! This sort of thing wouldn't have happened under Father Christmas!
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