A Christmas Tale
The portly old gentleman walked quietly into the kitchen where his equally aged and portly wife stood at the table stirring a large wooden spoon through a heavy mix of stodge.
"Trouble at mill," he said, shaking his head.
His wife did not look up.
"Oh dearie me," she replied quietly, continuing to stir the mixture.
"No ... this time there is REAL trouble at mill," he said with a raised voice as he handed over a crumpled piece of paper. His wife stopped stirring, adjusted her glasses, and began to read the scrawled note.
The words, in crayon, read - "with all jew respek Mr Nickliss ... while room and bord and food is good we want sum munny. No munny ... no laber."
It was signed Silo Gravy - and beside his name he had written "shop stewid".
"Silo's the head elf ... what on earth is he talking about?"
With a growing frown and tugging nervously at his beard, her husband, a saint of a man known to millions simply as Santa, explained.
"The elves ... they've formed a union. The ungrateful little wretches were watching some documentary the other night about a strike and now they want money."
The old couple were stunned. The elves of the north had never had money, because they didn't need any. Their food, lodgings and all wants and requirements were catered for by the Claus family trust.
But Silo Gravy, and a couple of mates, wanted to go to Las Vegas to gamble money, get tanked and meet chicks.
So they formed a union, without understanding exactly what one was, and told the more naive and less world-wise members of the great elf clan that if they joined and stood with them they would get more lollies, and fish and chips twice a week, not just on Saturday. The small army had effectively downed tools.
For the first time in many a long century, the reindeer and sleigh would be parked up, and millions of children across the world would wake to nothing but vacant lots at the foot of their beds.
Mrs Claus pondered getting in volunteers but her husband quickly reminded her that they did not exist in the same dimension as employment agencies and Winz. "Besides, the brutes have got three of the reindeer in with them ... trying to run the sleigh would be like trying to run a V8 around Bathurst on five cylinders."
Mrs Claus stopped stirring the mix, for as she solemnly concluded, there was little point in baking a spread of lovely scones for elves not prepared to do their bit for the goodwill of Christmas.
It was a stand-off.
Santa had told the 167 elves who lived in the warmth of the caverns he had created for them that he did not have the capacity to print money. But he did have the capacity to provide for them in every way ... except for gambling, booze and broads, of course.
He had noted that during his address to the elves a great many looked glum and solemn ... as if being led into a darkness not of their creation or wanting.
"It is up to you all," he said before walking slowly away, remarking as he left that he and his missus would pack as many, and deliver as many, as they and the five willing reindeer would allow.
The next morning the mail arrived and Santa went through it, with ebbing heart. Letters from little boys and girls from Tangiers to Taradale, writing politely and respectfully and asking if Santa could bring them that little special thing they wanted.
Dearie me, Santa sighed, and then he read one special letter from a little boy who said because he'd been sick he hadn't been able to go to school much or get out ... so maybe Santa had forgotten him.
"But that's okay Mr Santa ... but if there is a chance, could I get a ukulele? I have been ill but I have been good ... just like the elves ... they are always doing good things at Christmas, aren't they?"
Santa put the letter on the ElfTube website with a note that he would like to meet them all again in the morning.
Which he did, and they had clearly read the letter.
The faces of 160 six elves turned to look at Silo Gravy, and he looked down.
They had had a whip-around and collected 50 grams of gold.
"Go to your Lost Vegas," Minchy Flufney said gruffly as he handed the small pouch of gold to Silo.
"We've got work to do."
Silo looked up and smiled as he grabbed the gold.
Then he threw it at the feet of Santa.
"That'll buy the bestest, bestest ukulele in the world!"
Merry Christmas.
Roger Moroney is an award-winning journalist for Hawke's Bay Today and observer of the slightly off-centre.
By about 2pm, police determined the package posed no threat.