Singapore is no
place to be Santa Claus. I am referring to the dress up version here - a fake
Santa – not the real one.
Yesterday I
donned a full Santa suit for my good friend Jo Bo. My acceptance of her request
was one of those nonchalant didn’t-think-about-it-too-much moments. She asked
me at work a few weeks back, claiming that her own children Ben and Charlotte
were suspicious last year that Santa was her husband - the Frenchman Antony.
Anyway, I felt sympathy for Jo Bo and I am very fond of little Benny and
Charlotte – so I instantly agreed.
It is more than
twenty-four hours after the event and I am still suffering.
The origin of the
word ‘don’ in the context that I have used it – as in I put on the Santa suit –
is from the middle English period It is actually a contraction of the term ‘do
on’ – which meant to get dressed. A Don is also a head of an Italian mafia
family and it is also a title bestowed upon Department Heads or Tutors at
certain colleges in Oxford and Cambridge University. There are also three
rivers named Don. There is one in Russia and two in Great Britain. Don is also
of course an abbreviation of the name Donald. I have a very good mate called Donald.
Hello Don.
Anyway I digress.
I was asked by Jo
Bo to dress up as Santa Claus to hand out gifts at her condominium's Christmas party. It is an annual event and Jo Bo is one
of the chief organizers on the social committee where she lives. When I so nonchalantly
agreed to play the part all those weeks ago I had no idea of the largesse of
the event nor indeed the discomfort that was involved in wearing the outfit.
Jo Bo had ordered
a new Santa Suit for the occasion and it was delivered to her from Europe last
week. The suit comprised of thick red woolen pants, a matching long jacket that
was trimmed with fluffy white fur, a curly white wig and beard made of some
nylon-type material, a floppy Santa hat, big black boots and a pair of white
gloves. Also provided were an inflatable tummy and an enormous black belt. The
fat tummy contraption was worn by straps that were hung around the neck and
back.
It was an
instrument of torture.
The suit was
quite magnificent but it was obviously designed for cold climates. It was made
for wear in countries where there sub-zero temperatures and where there are
white Christmases. In the incessant heat and humidity of Singapore donning this
suit was a nightmare.
It really was.
The plans that
were made for the entrance and role of Santa at Jo Bo’s children’s Christmas
party were elaborate. I was to arrive at the rear entrance of her apartment
complex at 10.30 am exactly – fully suited-up. There I was to be met by her
husband Antony - who would usher me to their apartment where we would await
word that all fourty three of the children had been ushered into the function
room. Santa was to make a grand entrance.
Yes fourty three
children.
What was I thinking?
Jo Bo’s apartment
complex is about a fifteen-minute taxi ride from where I live. I awoke early
and I steeled myself by having several double-shot vanilla lattes at my local
café. At 8.30 am I showered, blew up my inflatable tummy and dressed up as
Santa. It was difficult to breathe through the nylon beard and the fibres
greatly irritated my skin. Walking was also not easy.
At 9.15 am I left
the relative comfort of my air conditioned apartment and went downstairs to the
foyer where I intended to ask the security guards to hail a taxi for me. As
soon as the lift doors opened the wave of heat and humidity hit me hard. I
staggered and reeled and after only a dozen or so steps I was bathed in
perspiration. My whole body began to prickle and itch as the wool and nylon
irritated my skin.
I lurched and
wobbled my way to the Security hut at the entrance to my complex and with my
white-gloved hand I tapped on the window. The security guards Raj and Raj stood
with looks of surprise on their faces. One of them opened the sliding window. A
blast of air-conditioned air was released and I felt momentary relief as my
nylon beard flapped in the draft.
“Good be morning Santa,” one of the Rajs said.
“No it is not Raj”
I replied.
“Is that being you Mr. Peter sir?” the other Raj enquired.
“Yes it is Raj,”
I said – spitting nylon hairs from my mouth.
Both Raj and Raj
snapped to immediate attention at the realisation that the melting man in the
Santa suit was me. I have explained the origins of this saluting thing before
and I will not repeat the sorry saga again here. Suffice to say it is
bewildering and unstoppable.
I have tried and
tried.
“At ease boys”
I commanded. I have found that this is the only way to get them to stop.
“You are besplendid Mr. Peter sir in your Santas uniform” a Raj beamed.
“I am be-fucked Raj” I replied.
“Could you please get me a taxi?”
One of the Rajs
immediately picked up the phone.
“I am going to have to come inside the security room and
wait,” I told the Rajs
“I will otherwise melt into a Santa puddle”
The Raj who was
not on the phone calling me a taxi immediately opened the door to the security
hut and I squeezed my way inside. Such was the size of my inflatable girth I
had to wriggle my way in sideways.
I was very
uncomfortable.
“A taxi is being on the way Mr. Peter,” the other Raj announced
“Why is it that you are being all dressinged up as the Santa
Claus?” he then
enquired.
“I am doing it for a friend’s children’s Christmas party
Raj” I replied.
Both Rajs nodded
their approval.
The elastic that
was holding on my beard was now cutting into the skin behind my ears and I
could feel welts rising all over my body as the suit chaffed my back and chest.
The taxi arrived
within a few minutes and I squeezed my way out of the security hut. One of the
Rajs opened the rear door of the taxi for me and I tumbled inside. I could see
a look of mild amusement on the face of the elderly Singaporean taxi driver in
his rear vision mirror.
“Where to Santa sir?”
“Aspen Place condominiums in River Valley road please uncle.
Could you please also turn your air conditioning up full blast?”
“Can la”
he responded and I maneuvered my bulk to the middle of the seat in order to
receive the cool breeze of the air conditioning on my bearded face.
As we took off I
noticed that both Rajs were in rigid salutes but such was the restriction of
the suit I was unable to salute or wave back. The inflatable tummy was being
pushed up into my chest when I was in a seated position and the straps were
taut against my neck and lower back. I inwardly groaned at the prospect of
fourty three children clambering all over me.
The taxi ride was
fortuitously a brief one and I waved off any attempt at conversation by the
uncle with a white-gloved hand.
“Cannot speak uncle la,” I declared in Singlish.
“Pieces of beard get into my mouth la”
He nodded his
understanding.
As had been
pre-arranged I punched in the sms message ‘En route’ to Antony. Moments later
we pulled into the Aspen Heights condominium where Antony was awaiting my
arrival. I struggled out of the vehicle as he opened the taxi door for me and
the blast of the heat hit me again.
“Bonjour Peter you are early” Antony said to me in his French accent
“Bonjour Antony – yes I am” I replied
“You look very ‘ot”
he declared
“I am very ‘ot,”
I responded.
Antony ushered me
down a narrow alley to the rear of his house where I begged him to turn his air
conditioning up full blast. He obligingly did so and I then collapsed into an
armchair. With some difficulty I pulled up the sleeve of my Santa jacket. A red
rash covered my entire forearm and I was alarmed to see what appeared to be
blood staining my skin. I then realized that it was just the dye of the suit
that had leaked from the sweat that was pouring off my body.
It was already a
nightmare.
“Ve must wait until Joanna has gathered together all of zee
enfants and zen she vill ring for us to come” Antony declared in his somewhat annoying French accent.
“That will be like herding cats” I responded.
“’Erding cats?”
Antony enquired.
“It is an expression that means it will be very difficult”
Bits of nylon
beard were tickling my nose and some had now lodged themselves in my teeth.
“Vould you like some vater?” Antony asked
“Yes please”
Antony
disappeared and then returned moments later with a tall glass of iced water.
Drinking it proved difficult and my nylon beard was soon saturated with
spillage.
After about ten
minutes or so Antony’s phone rang and he listened intently then spoke in rapid
French.
“Zey are ready”
he then said to me.
“Nice one”
I replied.
I stood painfully
and laboriously and Antony led me out of the air-conditioned apartment down a
path to the pool. The function room was located immediately adjacent to the
swimming pool. Perspiration was dripping from my every pore and my thighs were
chaffing and stinging.
I heard the
children before I sighted them. There was much screeching and squealing. As I
limped my way forward a child’s voice yelled, “There he is” and a swarm of ankle biters surged in my direction. I
stopped in my tracks and awaited the impact. The force near knocked me off my feet.
Most of the little ones were between the ages of four and six so they were only
knee-height to me. To maintain my balance I raised both arms and ignoring the
burning pain I roared “Ho ho ho. Merry
Christmas”.
This seemed to
excite the children even more and some I think tried to climb up my body.
Several little girls were clutching my legs so hard that I feared that they
would pull my pants down. I could do naught but hug the masses that surround me
and I bellowed out a few more “Ho Ho
Ho’s”. Adults who I assumed were the parents of these waifs did not rescue
me from their grip but they stood around laughing and taking photos with their cameras
and mobile telephones. My eyes that were already stinging from the salty sweat
that was drenching my face were momentarily blinded from camera flashes.
I stood poolside
for what seemed like an eternity “ho ho
hoing” with gusto. I gently batted down the children that were trying to
climb me and I managed to hitch up my pants. To my great relief Jo Bo emerged through
the crowd and she took my hand an announced. “Alright everyone go sit down next to the tree so Santa can hand out
your presents”
This seemed to
have an immediate and positive effect and a sea of little ones squealed again
as one and ran off into the function room. The adults trailed behind them. Two
little blonde-headed girls however refused to let go of my legs and I was
compelled to walk stiffly to the function room with them attached.
It was very
difficult.
I literally
collapsed into the leather armchair that had been placed next to a very large
Christmas tree that was surrounded by an enormous pile of brightly wrapped
gifts. There was then much hushing uttered by a number of parents and slowly
the din of the excited children quelled.
When the room was
near silent I let loose with another mighty “Ho
ho ho Merry Christmas” and I roared out my pre-prepared diatribe. I told
the now spell-bound little ones that I had just arrived in Singapore from the
North Pole and had parked my reindeer and sleigh on the roof of the building. I told the
children that my reindeer were tired after such a long journey and they were
resting while drinking water and munching on carrots. Then I asked all the boys
and girls if they had been good this year and there were deafening screams of
affirmation. So I then declared how happy I was to hear that and I gave one
more “Ho ho ho” and announced I was
going to give them their presents.
My helper elf
then began the process of handing me gifts – each with a nametag on them. I
then called out the child’s name and one by one they came forward to receive
them. The tightness of the suit, the cutting pain of the inflatable belly and
the discomfort of the heat that I was suffering all seemed to dissipate.
This was the
really nice bit.
Some of the
little one’s were a bit shy and reticent receiving their gifts and others were
more enthusiastic. I picked each of them up and sat them on my knee and we had
little chats. We talked about what they wanted me to leave them under their Christmas
trees and I asked a few of them if they wouldn’t mind leaving me out a biscuit
and a glass of milk and some carrots for my reindeer. A few of the little girls
hugged me tight and said “I love you
Santa”. I hugged them right back and told them that I loved them too of
course.
Quite a few of
the children coyly gave me their hand written notes with their Christmas wish
lists. Some of the letters had beautiful pictures that they had drawn for me - and
a few actually brought tears to my eyes. I don’t think anyone noticed - as my
face was all red and sweaty anyway.
One of the older
children – a Canadian boy named Seth who might have been nine or ten - told me
that he knew I wasn’t the real Santa because he could see the elastic that was holding
my beard on. He refused to sit on my knee and I had to grab him and hold him
squirming so his Mum could take a photo. I told Seth that of course I was real
and the elastic was just covering a wound. He then called me a shit so I pulled
him close again and told him with a smiling whisper that I would set him on
fire if he tried to tell any of the little kids that I wasn’t real.
It seemed to shut
him up.
Handing out all
the presents took a long while but time actually passed quite quickly and I
liked it a lot. When all of the presents under the tree had been handed out I
once again “Ho ho and hoed” and I
asked if everyone had got their presents. To my horror a little Indian boy who
was sitting cross-legged right in front of me told me that he hadn’t. I cast a desperate
and furtive glance at my helper elf - who then ran away. I patted my lap and
the little boy climbed up and I reassured him that Santa was a silly old
sausage and he must have left his gift in his sleigh and I had sent my elf to
go an retrieve it.
I asked the
little fellow where his Mummy and Daddy were and he told me that his Mum was at
work and his Dad lived in India and my heart broke in half. I gave him a big
sweaty hug and to my great relief Jo Bo soon arrived with a hastily wrapped
present that must have been plucked from her own children’s stash of toys. The little boy hugged me hard and kissed my
cheek - then he climbed down from my lap and ran to the other children.
I dragged myself
creakily to my feet and gave one final and mighty holler of “Ho ho ho - Merry Christmas” before I
limped painfully out of the room. Clusters of little girls and boys surrounded
me as I departed and Jo Bo and Antony helped to gently detach some from my greatly
inflamed legs and torso. A few tried to
follow me up the path but I waved them off saying that they couldn’t come any
further as both Donner and Blitzen were inclined to bite children and their
safety was at risk.
At Jo Bo’s house
I staggered into her bathroom and immediately disrobed. I was unsurprised to
see that my whole body was covered in a rash and red dye. The water of the
shower stung my skin and provided no relief at all. While I dressed into my
street clothes Antony called me a taxi and I bid both he and Jo Bo adieu and
returned home.
I sit here now in
agony writing this – and wondering whether the pain and suffering I had endured –
and indeed continue to endure - was offset by the joy that I had experienced in playing Santa. I ask myself the question would I do it
all again next year?
Yep – of course I
would - in a heartbeat.
In a blink.
In a blink.