Stand and Deliver

I collapse gratefully into my armchair in front of the fire. I can’t feel my feet. The missus hands me a mug of hot chocolate which I cradle in my frozen hands.

“Bah, humbug to Christmas,” I say.

“I think that’s already been said,” she says mildly. “The season is supposed be about peace and goodwill, not grumpiness.”

“Really? When you are responsible for a delivery service, as I am, it’s your least favorite time of year. You’d be grumpy too. A small family-run business trying to compete with Amazon and the like. The warehouse is freezing cold, and it takes forever to load up. Everyone wants their things delivered on a particular day and at a particular time and they’re not going to waste a moment in complaining if it’s late. It would help if they could write addresses correctly and follow instructions on how to wrap stuff, but that would be asking too much.”

“Dear, you’re going to get your blood pressure up again with all this ranting. Drink your chocolate and relax. You’ll feel better.”

“And what is all this pandemonium for? A bunch of crap that they don’t need that will probably fall apart or be re-gifted before you can say ‘Ho, ho, ho’. Parents working their fingers to the bone to afford whatever it is the sprats want this year. Ban advertising and there’d be a lot less of the whining. Men rushing around on Christmas Eve trying to find something at the last moment, doing stupid stuff like buying the same item in different colors for the wife and the mother-in-law. Meanwhile said wife has been spending hours on thoughtful gift ideas other than cards for the tool shop, cooking, cleaning and gift-wrapping. Then they wonder why the atmosphere at home is below freezing.”

She laughs.

“Yes, some of those men could use a little direction.”

I take a swig of chocolate and a deep breath.

“And another thing. Don’t get me started about staff. It’s always been difficult to get good workers, but it’s ridiculous now. They’re a bunch of divas these days. Don’t want to lift this, don’t want to stack that, expect to take a break every five minutes. There’s even been talk of ... I can hardly say it... the union word. When I was a lad starting out in the old days, we took pride in the job. I know, I know. They all roll their eyes when I say that, but it’s true. I hear them muttering behind my back, but I don’t care. I may not want the job, but while I have it, it’s going to be done right. They call me an old curmudgeon and worse when they think I’m not listening, but I don’t miss a thing.”

She gives me a mischievous look.

“You, a curmudgeon, dear? A sweet-natured old thing like you?”

 I glare at her, trying to fathom if she’s being serious, but she’s focusing on her knitting again. The missus doesn’t like to hear me being negative, as she calls it. I think she’s been watching too many of those mushy, touchy-feely television shows about expressing emotions lately. You know the kind. A bunch of ladies with too much makeup sitting round a table talking over each other. What’s wrong with speaking your mind and calling it like it is? There’s enough fake stuff around already, what with the canned Christmas music, the pretend snow, the jolly advertisements, that I don’t have to add to it. But I hold my tongue, for the sake of peace at home, if not on Earth. When I vent about all the stuff we must deliver, she tells me that I should consider myself privileged to bring joy to people. It might be the only nice thing that’s happened to them all year.

“Think of it,” she says. “Job losses, divorces, death, sickness, natural disasters, wars.”

 “Okay, okay,” I say, rubbing my forehead. “I get the point. No need for the guilt trip.”

“It’s not a guilt trip,” she replies. “You appear to them like a shining star on the horizon, a symbol of hope, generosity and kindness.”

“Stop,” I yell. “This is worse than the guilt trip. You're making me feel guilty and ashamed."

"Calm down, dear. It's not necessary to raise your voice."

 She smiles innocently and goes back to her knitting, while I try to recover. She always ties me in knots when we have these discussions, and I can never figure out how she does it.

“Maybe you should retire,” she says after counting a row of stitches. “Perhaps it’s time to let someone else take over.”

I look at her suspiciously. Where did that idea come from? I wonder who’s been talking to her. Surely my employees wouldn’t dare.

“Is someone saying that I’m not up to speed anymore?” I ask. “That I’m past my sell by date? Just because I’m not as young as I once was doesn’t mean I can’t still do the job.”

“Sweetheart, don’t be so melodramatic,” she says, shaking her head. “It's not rocket science. You don’t exactly make a secret of your feelings about the job, the work, the customers, the staff. If it bothers you that much, give it up. My only condition is that you find a hobby. I don’t want you under my feet all day long if you do retire.”

I blink. I hadn’t ever thought of this.

Retire? That might be a nice idea. No more getting up at dawn, checking lists, loading parcels. I fantasize for a moment before I realize there's a catch. Hobbies. I think frantically. What would I do? Sudoku, hiking, jigsaws, model trains? My life would depend on it. I sneak a sidelong glance at the missus. She isn’t kidding when she says I’d better stay out of her way.

The clock chimes just as I finish my chocolate, interrupting my train of thought. Never mind. Can’t wrap my brain around it tonight. Better get going. I heave myself out of the chair.

“I hate to admit it, but I do feel better now, dear, thanks,”

She beams at me.

“I knew you would. Be careful out there. I fed the reindeer, so they’re all ready to go. It’s a beautiful night so you shouldn’t have any delays.”

As I smooth down my beard and straighten my tunic, I hear giggling coming from the front door.

“What are you lot doing lollygagging around out there?” I roar in mock rage, winking at the missus. “That sleigh had better be loaded right. Let’s get on with it.”

The elves troop in, totally unfazed, grab some cookies and scamper behind me as I stride out into the cold where the reindeer are standing and stomping in the snow. I survey the scene for a moment. The stars are sparkling in the ink dark sky and the snow is glistening. The elves check the sleigh one last time, squabbling happily amongst themselves. Retire? No way. I climb onto the sleigh, more slowly than I used to, perhaps, and give a sigh of contentment. This is where I belong.