Jim Hopkins: The day of recovery

It's a bit tricky, this, because there's not a lot to say about Boxing Day around here. Sleep, sleep, and more sleep pretty much covers it.

Unless you go back in time a day or two ... Christmas Eve and the tension's building. It always does. Every year we ask ourselves, "Is this the year it all turns to soot?"

People don't realise that. They see the suit, the beard, the smile and they take them for granted. They never think about the organisation, the planning, the team behind the scenes.

But we do. We being the SAS, or Sleigh Assistance Squad. Officially, we don't exist. No one knows who we are or where we go, but "to the rescue" is near enough.

And we do that every Christmas. In the hours before C Day, we assemble at a secret location "somewhere in the Southern Alps" and wait for The Boss to arrive.

He always starts his run here because of the time zones and after the long trip from the North Pole there are invariably a few technical problems with SST (Supersonic Santa Transport). It's actually built by British Sleighland and is a very high-tech piece of kit.

Mind you, it has to be. You don't do four billion house calls in a clunky import with a dodgy odo!

We never know when Mr S will turn up because he does the North Island first and Remuera always takes a while, but once he arrives, it's all go.

We check out the high-speed engines first. Hyperbaric, Cross-Oscillating, Nano-sonic Moleculisers, they run on a blend of Kryptonite, de-radiated Plutonium and reindeer fat.

"Waste not, want not," is The Boss' motto.

We also double-check the GPS (Gift Positioning System). There was a huge row one year when Aunty Ethel got Uncle Norm's adult videos by mistake.

Although, to be fair, once the dust had settled, she did get on a lot better with the vicar.

But we don't want a repeat. And we don't want Santa Claus turning into Santa Crisp over the Indian Ocean either, so we're extra careful with the all-important Beard Shield that prevents meltdown during re-entry.

Finally, when the job's done, we all hop in the BUS (Back-up Sleigh) and follow "S" around the world.

Twenty-four hours later, the job's done; a quick de-brief and we're safely tucked up in bed, usually round 7am on the 26th.

And that's Boxing Day. Pretty boring, really.